


Fire and Ice

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (the timestamp), Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Firefighters, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Castiel Topping From the Bottom (Supernatural), Collars, Consensual Somnophilia, Dean Winchester Wears Panties, Deepthroating, Demiromantic Castiel (Supernatural), Demisexual Castiel (Supernatural), Doctor Sam Winchester, Dom Castiel/Sub Dean Winchester, Double Penetration, Edgeplay, Exhibitionist Dean Winchester, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Fic Facer$ Charity Auction (Supernatural), Fic Facer$ Charity Auction 2020 (Supernatural), Fire, Firefighter Dean Winchester, Friends With Benefits, Gentle Dom Castiel (Supernatural), Hair-pulling, Hand Feeding, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Medic Castiel (Supernatural), Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Paddling, Painplay, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Relationship Negotiation, Restraints, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Shibari, Spanking, Spreader Bars, Stress Relief, Sub Dean Winchester, Subdrop, Suspension, Team Dean Winchester's Red Ass, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 189,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23286295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: Firefighter Dean Winchester has somehow tumbled headfirst into a whole new kind of relationship with his quirky paramedic best friend, Castiel Novak. What was only meant to be mutual relief from their high-stress jobs is quickly developing into something more, but with all the missed signals and crossed wires, can these two ever figure out that they're so much closer to being on the same page than they think?
Relationships: (Minor), Background Sam/Jess, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Kaia Nieves/Claire Novak, Past Castiel/Meg
Comments: 1564
Kudos: 1610
Collections: FicFacer$ 2020, SPN Best Works, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alohikea74](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alohikea74/gifts).



> Featuring: experienced Dom Cas and newbie sub Dean!
> 
> This is my offering to the DeanCas fandom in light of the sad news about the (sort of) unexpected hiatus with no known ending. Updates will be on Mondays, which is less frequent than usual for me, but they will be long (like 10k+) and hopefully give folx something to look forward to while the show is MIA. 
> 
> Tags are NOT comprehensive; this is an explicit D/S story, there will be at least one major BDSM scene in every chapter. There's no way I can tag for every kink in advance, however, I will include them at the top of each new chapter and update the tag list as I go. 
> 
> There will be mentions of the stress of Dean and Cas' jobs. This will include references to emergency situations, people they've lost, people they couldn't save, and how all that has affected them. Both of them are on the trauma spectrum because of their work; it's part of why they have the D/S relationship, and it WILL come up. If you're sensitive to those topics, please be aware that it's intrinsic to their dynamic and the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gorgeous title banner is by the most wonderful and sweet [LadyRandomBox](https://twitter.com/ladyrandombox) aka Lindsay! <3 there are several more that will pop up in headers towards the end!

By the time the engine carrying Station Fifteen’s crew pulls up— _with a slight screech of the brakes, he’ll have to check the pads later—_ to the dispatched address, Dean can already tell that the house is going to be a total loss. 

“You can leave your masks off for now, boys.” Benny’s voice comes calm and even over the headset Dean’s still wearing as he peers out the side window of the cab, taking in the flames erupting violently from the third floor of the little rowhome, lighting up the dark, midnight sky in yellows and oranges. This is no one in Engine 15’s first rodeo and as such, no one makes the rookie mistake of bolting from the truck before it’s even been directed into its final parking space. Out of the path of drafting hoses being laid but still close enough to be useful, Victor throws the brake and puts the truck in high-idle. As Dean waits, his air pack digging into his back where it’s pressed between him and the seat, his blood thrums hot in his veins. 

It’s been years and hundreds of fires both large and small since Dean was new to this, but the shine has yet to wear off. This is what he _loves,_ what he’s meant to be doing—but that doesn’t mean it isn’t stressful. Adjusting the straps of the pack where they press against the bunker gear covering his chest, Dean checks everything he’s wearing unconsciously, out of habit, while he waits for Benny’s orders. Most of it is still in standby mode—his face mask hangs from his neck, his hood and gloves are tucked inside his helmet, which he holds in his hands—since Benny said to hold off on all that. The rest are things he could (and has) put on his sleep: boots, heavy fire-rated turnout pants and coat, all of it stacked over his regular duty uniform. 

No one can see them, but Dean’s also wearing his “happy hamburger” socks, the tiniest act of rebellion hidden away beneath layers of clothing and leather. Good luck socks are his thing, and no one can take that away.

Station 15 is the third station to arrive to the active fireground and as such, there’s already another engine crew executing an interior attack and a second setting up exterior, plus the RIT team standing by, hopefully unneeded. Dean’s limited view out his window tells him there’s also a Chief’s vehicle and at least one ambulance parked a couple of houses away. Distantly, over the noise of the fire and people yelling outside the truck, he hears Benny speaking into the radio clipped to his shoulder, communicating with whoever has scene command right now, which Dean assumes is one of the chiefs, maybe Rufus but probably Bobby. 

“Alrigh’ fellas,” Benny relays through the headsets from where he sits in the passenger’s seat at the front of the cab. “Bobby wants another stream on the northwest windows on the third floor, where the flames are. There’s a missing kid on the first floor, but Eleven is on it.” Eleven is the first-in station currently rushing through the front door of the row home with their hose charged and at the ready. There’s a murmur of disappointment-laced acknowledgment that rumbles through the truck as Dean and his teammates comply, exiting the vehicle with laden-down _thuds_ as boots hit concrete. The general dissent lasts only a fleeting moment before it’s gone and everyone is springing into action, working efficiently as a team to get their truck and hoses hooked up to put some more water on the fire. 

Dean gets it, he’s right there with his co-workers, not that he’d ever let it show. Every part of the job is important, every responding unit and its crew is as valuable as the next. There are no small tasks, everyone’s a hero, blah, blah, Dean (and every other firefighter on this scene) wants to be inside that house. That’s just a fact. Firefighters don’t sit around dreaming about the day they can sit on a five-inch in the middle of a soggy street lit by emergency lights while directing water into a broken window high above their heads. Although to be fair, that’s definitely not the _worst_ task, either. Everyone wants to be on the nozzle, on the rescue team, _in_ the thick of it, not hanging on the periphery doing the (necessary, but not nearly as exciting) busywork.

And yet, here he is. 

Sighing, Dean ends up passing the hose off to Aaron after just a few minutes, wanting to wander around and see what Bobby’s doing running the show. If he can’t get in on the real action, he can at least be nosy and find out what’s going on inside from the source. It’s been several minutes and there’s no sign of Engine Eleven’s crew, and that’s sort of suspicious. They should be updating via their radios, at least. Vaguely, Dean wonders who is on that crew tonight. 

Meanwhile, out here on the street hydrants are being hooked up to help douse the flames and soak the adjacent houses to prevent the spread, but there are so many crews on scene at this point, Dean’s almost feels superfluous. Maybe Bobby’ll have something he can do. Smart money is on Bobby actually calling him an “idjit” and tell him to fuck off so he can work, but Dean’s just bored enough to risk it.

Before he can even get five feet away from his truck, though, alarms start sounding. A combination of _PASS_ devices activating from inside the house, emergency buttons being pressed, and panicked yelling over the radios themselves fills the air. 

“Dean!” Benny calls out from somewhere behind him and Dean whirls around. “Pack up, cher. Eleven’s out, we’re taking over the rescue. That kid is still in there.” 

Just like that, everything but the task ahead of him flies out of Dean’s head in an instant. His focus sharpens and narrows, reviewing everything that will be expected of him, assessing the burning house from what he can see from the outside and developing a plan of attack. In his peripheral vision, the RIT team, already packed up and ready, goes charging inside the darkened front door to rescue whoever went down from Eleven and to bring their whole team back out safely. Dean doesn’t pay any of them too much mind—while he’s worried about Eleven (he has friends in every station in this city), this is a part of the job, and this is precisely what having a dedicated RIT team is for, rescuing the rescuers. 

By the time he’s standing with a nozzle in his hand and his newly-minted search and rescue team lined up on the pipe behind him (less than two minutes after Benny’s order), RIT is already extricating, carrying two injured firefighters out of the house and over to EMS for assessment. A quick glance their way tells Dean there are only two ambulances, and he pauses before entering the house to radio Benny, asking for status on a third. It’s important to think ahead, since the kid they’re looking for is likely to need care, if not resus. 

“On the way, cher,” Benny’s accent crackles next to his ear. “Coming from Central, ETA four to five. Everyone from Eleven is out now, you’re cleared to enter the building. Make good choices, brotha.” Behind his face shield, Dean rolls his eyes at the sarcastic note in Benny’s voice, but he knows his captain means well, so he keeps his return barbs to himself and zeroes in on what he has to do. A hand on his shoulder says his guys are ready, and Dean advances low and tight to the wall as he steps through the doorway.

The first floor is dark and thick with the odor of fire and smoke, but it’s relatively clear. From the intel Benny received, there was a miscommunication and the kid was never on the first floor to begin with. It’s up to him and the rest of 15 to find him, wherever he’s hidden on the second level. Dean doesn’t allow himself to think about what it might mean if the kid is any higher up in the building—they’ll cross that bridge when they (hopefully don’t) come to it. 

As Dean and his team are climbing the stairs, breaths echoing loudly inside their masks and arms full of hose line, Benny’s voice sounds again over the radio. “Idiot on Eleven tripped and took her buddy down with her. No one’s seriously hurt, just relaying so you don’t worry, brotha, I know how you are. Evac wasn’t even fire-related. Dean, mother says kid’s name is Ben, room is a left off of the stairs, two doors down on the right.”

“10-4, Cap,” Dean replies, after depressing the button on the speaker clipped to his shoulder. At the top of the stairs, he follows Benny’s directions. The smoke up here is much thicker, forcing the firefighters to get on their knees close to the ground and move frustratingly slow as they slog forward. Dean fumbles a little as he works to juggle holding onto the nozzle while feeling along the wall for the doors. “One,” he calls out to the team members behind him, knowing they heard Benny’s message over their own radios. Normally, they’d check every room and clear as they went, but time is of the essence here, and they’re working with reliable intel that there’s only one person to rescue _and_ that he’s in the next room. The house isn’t particularly stable, either, creaking and snapping around them, and Dean has no desire to be on the rescue-needing end of a RIT team tonight.

“Two,” he declares, holding out a hand to stop Aaron, who’s close behind him, from slamming into his back. 

Making quick work of a heat-check to the door, Dean decides it’s unlikely there’s fire behind it and opens it up. He still breaths a sigh of relief when he’s right, since this room is under where the fire is above, and while wet marks are starting to spread down the walls from the hoses flooding water in from outside, the fire is nowhere near controlled. 

“Ben!” Dean calls out, but there’s no reply. They’re in the right place, at least, if this is where Ben is hiding. A young boy’s room; sports posters on the walls that are falling and shriveling in the heat. A twin bed with a Lightning McQueen comforter and matching pillow, toys, and clothes scattered all over the floor. A quick glance around doesn’t reveal anything overtly out of place, except for the smoke swiftly becoming thicker. From where he’s crouched, Dean can see underneath the bed—no Ben. 

Within seconds, he clocks the closed closet door across the room and locks onto it. Dean follows his instincts, standing and striding over to throw the door wide, feeling conflicting swells of relief and fear at what he sees inside as he drops back into a crouch. Ben is curled up small and motionless in the far corner of the dark space, skinny arms wrapped tightly around his legs, head tucked firmly in between them. 

“Ben,” Dean repeats, this time more gentle as he reaches out to touch Ben’s arm. The closet wouldn’t have done the boy any favors if the flames had spread to this room, but it actually seems to have kept some of the smoke out, or perhaps the clothing hanging above Ben’s head provided some insulation, Dean isn’t sure. Whatever the reason, Ben is relievedly awake, lifting his head to blink up at Dean, terrified and sleepy. He’s got soot on his face, ash at the corners of his lips, and while he’s compensating well right now, Dean knows time is of the essence—much longer spent inside this house, and Ben will be in deep trouble. 

“Come on buddy,” he urges, opening his arms and wrapping them around Ben’s little body when he climbs into them and clings on tight. As soon as he’s set, Dean hits his radio. “Coming out with one, awake and alert but needs EMS, Mom can meet us.” As Dean rushes past his team and back down the stairs (they can take care of the hose and whatever interior attack Bobby wants next, Ben is priority right now), he’s extremely glad he didn’t have to tell Benny to keep Ben’s mom away. That only would have happened if Ben had been in worse distress, something no emergency responder ever wants to see, something all of them collectively dread having to deal with. 

_Not today,_ Dean resolves, his gloved hand cupping the back of Ben’s head protectively, the kid’s face buried in Dean’s shoulder. 

As soon as he steps out into the LED-lit front yard and emergency-vehicle-strewn street, Dean blinks against the bright lights and looks around for the raised hand he knows will be there. _Benny._ Standing to the left of the scene, out by the curb, Benny’s waving wildly, trying to get Dean's attention. His eyes find him just as Benny’s voice comes over Dean’s radio. “To your left, cher.” 

Every eye follows Dean and Ben as he exits stage left, but only for a minute and then they’re back on the project they came here to solve. _Rescue. Contain. Extinguish._ So far, so good, even considering Eleven’s mistake. 

Out of the direct glare of the lights, Dean’s able to focus on the EMT standing next to Benny on the sidewalk, a familiar redheaded pixie that Dean’s extremely happy to see. Charlie grins as Dean steps up, turning Ben in his arms to face her. She’s got an oxygen tank in a bag slung around her shoulder and a non-rebreather mask inflated and at the ready. Charlie is great with kids, and it takes very little coaxing for Ben to allow her to apply the mask. Despite that, he continues clinging to Dean, even as his mother grabs at him and kisses his head from the side, sobbing into his hair. 

“Let’s move this to the ambulance,” Benny murmurs, more for the mother’s benefit than anything else as he takes the distraught woman’s elbow and gently guides her towards the box with its flashing lights. She keeps looking over her shoulder to thank him profusely but Dean barely notices, though in another world, she’d be exactly his type. What with the dark hair and the dark eyes, and the yoga pants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Maybe it’d be something to consider if everything in his life hadn’t already changed. 

Charlie opens the side door to the ambulance and Dean climbs in, Ben’s positioning in his arms preventing him at first from seeing the paramedic who is occupying the back. Whoever it is must be setting up their gear, preparing for the worst while the EMT went and retrieved their patient.

At the top of the box’s stairs, Dean turns and nearly comes nose-to-nose with a pair of _very_ familiar blue eyes. They crinkle at their corners just at the sight of Dean, and his stomach turns over in response, doing its best to tie itself in knots while _Dean_ does his best not to let it show. 

“Heya, Cas,” Dean says a little breathlessly, which he hopes can be attributed to his current situation and not reality, which is that he’s _always_ a little too happy to see his best friend. Castiel smiles back, motioning for Dean to hand the boy over, which Benny is not overly thrilled about but allows. Benny’s big on doing the heavy lifting for the ambulance crews whenever possible, and most of them love him for it. Castiel takes it as a personal affront to his biceps.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says as he gets Ben settled on the stretcher and introduces himself, immediately handing over an inflated nitrile glove with a smiley face drawn onto the palm in sharpie. Ben accepts the gift gleefully and with the spark of someone who was not in life-threatening danger just moments prior. Kids are heckin’ resilient like that, though it never fails to floor Dean to see live and in person. 

Behind him, Benny’s shutting off Dean’s oxygen tank before tugging off his helmet and hood so that Dean can move a little easier inside the ambulance. He bats Benny’s hands away, taking off his own mask off before reluctantly letting Benny slip the tank from his shoulders, mostly so he doesn’t accidentally destroy some of Cas’ equipment in the process. Finally free from the worst of his protective gear, Dean shakes his sweaty head and works his jaw before turning to give Benny the full attention he’s waiting for.

“Stay with Cas,” Benny instructs. “Do whatever he needs you to do, I’m assuming he’s gonna want Charlie in the back with him, so you’ll need to drive. Hit me up by radio if y’all need anything, you hear me?” Dean reaches a hand out and fist bumps his Captain in acknowledgment before Benny escapes back out the side door. Dean watches through the side window as he returns to the active fire scene to get back to work. He takes Dean’s pack with him, but Dean keeps the rest of his gear. 

When he turns around again, Charlie has the back door open and is standing there with Ben’s mother, who is still quietly sobbing. Castiel catches Dean’s gaze and raises an eyebrow, to which Dean holds up an understanding hand. “Say no more,” he says, before exiting the side of the ambulance, closing the door, and making his way to the back. “I got her, and I’ll drive,” he tells Charlie, who eyes him gratefully before climbing in with Cas and pulling the door shut behind her. 

Plastering on his most empathetic face, Dean puts an arm around the petite woman’s shoulders and moves to guide her to the front passenger’s seat of the ambulance. “What’s your name?” he asks gently as the woman sniffles and wipes her nose on her sleeve, which is actually a bathrobe. Not surprising, since the fire clearly caught this family off guard and in the dead of night. 

“Lisa,” she replies choppily, tipping her head to blink up at him with big, watery eyes. _Hoo, boy. Definitely, in another time and place,_ Dean thinks. “Thank you,” she tells him, stopping Dean’s arm as he reaches to open her door. “Honestly, I can never—”

“You’re welcome.” Dean cuts her off gently but genuinely, removing her hand from his arm (not unkindly) before opening the door, assisting when she struggles to climb up and in. “It was my pleasure. We’re all just relieved that everyone is okay. Houses, clothes, even pictures—all that stuff is replaceable, you guys aren’t.” Lisa nods as she looks down at him and Dean offers her a soft smile, reaching out to squeeze her hand briefly, a small gesture of comfort and reassurance. “It’s all going to be okay.”

“Okay,” Lisa echoes, nodding down at her lap as if she’s trying to convince herself. “Okay.” 

“Seatbelt,” Dean reminds her as he closes the door. 

Having been trained to drive all of the fire apparatus, maneuvering the box ambulance is a breeze. Although, Dean does have to keep reminding himself that there are people in the back, that he can’t take turns on two wheels if he wants Cas to make it to the hospital concussion-free. On the way there, Dean gets some basic info from Ben’s mom and relays it to Cas through the pass-through window cut between the cab and the box. At the hospital, he takes it upon himself to register the kid while Cas and Charlie are transferring him to a room and giving report to the nurse. 

When Dean’s done his part, he meets the two of them back at the ambulance where they’re cleaning and restocking used supplies. Dean props his booted foot up on the truck’s fender, shivering a little in the chilly night air. He’d slipped his bunker jacket off before driving to the hospital, too warm and too confining for that particular task, but he kind of misses it now, since all he had underneath was a short-sleeved t-shirt. 

“I told you to wear your long-sleeve tee,” Castiel rumbles from where he’s organizing the IV supplies back into the kit. His dark, messy hair is in a worse state than usual, looking as if each strand is determined to go in a different direction, just to piss Dean off. It makes his stupidly handsome face look even more so than usual, and it’s distracting enough that Dean fails at coming up with a snappy retort.

“Geez, I knew you two were attached at the hip, but he dresses you too, Winchester?” Charlie teases as she slides the doors of one of the storage cabinets shut, pumping some hand sanitizer into her palm and rubbing her hands together until they’re dry.

“Fuck you,” Dean mumbles back, fishing inside his bunker gear to dig in the pocket of his regular pants and find his phone. Ducking his head to hide the flush in his cheeks, he drags up Benny’s number and shoots off a text message. “No, he doesn’t _dress_ me. We were drinkin’ last night and I passed out on Cas’ couch.” It’s a half-truth, but it’s not like Dean’s about to disclose to Charlie (or anyone) what he and Cas were _actually_ doing last night, what they were preparing to do tonight. Swallowing hard, Dean struggles to compose himself again just from flashing back on all that, determinedly ignoring the interested twitch his dick gives, thankfully under multiple layers of _very_ thick material. 

When he finally glances up from his phone, Dean’s not shocked to see Castiel already looking back at him and smirking openly. While Charlie might be oblivious, Castiel knows _exactly_ what he’s thinking about. Probably knows what his dick was doing in his pants too, smug bastard. To make things worse, Cas is lounging against the ambulance wall with a foot propped up on the stretcher. He’s oh so casual, infuriatingly calm, his crotch and the outline of what he’s packing on easy display in his duty pants, his piercing gaze challenging when it meets Dean’s. 

Narrowing his eyes, Dean replies without words as loudly as he can. 

“Will you be needing a ride back to the fire scene?” Castiel asks, completely cool, totally nonchalant, but Dean doesn’t miss the way his fingers trail up his thigh, coming to rest just inches from his groin. 

“No,” Dean manages, voice coming out slightly strained. “Benny, uh—” he checks his phone and bites back a grimace. Benny won’t be able to come grab him for at least another half an hour, but no way is he going to let Castiel know that. If there’s one thing Dean is sure of right now, it’s that he can’t be stuck in a confined space with Cas while they’re both on duty. One of them will end up dead or fired or worse. Thoughts slightly addled, Dean gets it together enough to remember the point he was trying to get across. “You guys go on and head out, Benny’s gonna come grab me.” It’s not a lie, and Dean’ll die on this hill if he has to. 

“Alright,” Castiel replies, dusting off his pants as he stands. The devious smile on his face gives away the fact that he knows _exactly_ what Dean is doing and is happy to let him make his own bed _and_ lie in it. Abruptly, Dean realizes exactly how deep he’s in, that Castiel doesn’t think he even needs to be in the same _room_ to torture and distract Dean. The awful thing is, he’s right. Even worse, Dean is _super_ into it, wouldn’t bail on this whole thing for all the bacon cheeseburgers in the universe _and_ the metabolism to put them away. 

As Castiel steps down out of the truck, he drops a heavy hand to Dean’s shoulder, squeezing hard and for long enough to send a pointed message that Dean (and his dick) receives loud and clear. Charlie follows, and she shoots both of them a concerned look. “Are you two alright? There’s something…” She narrows her eyes and waves both index fingers back and forth in the space between them. “Something in the air, here.” 

“We’re fine,” Dean replies, waving dismissively as Castiel just shrugs. They’re saved from further prodding (and possibly the Spanish Inquisition, because Charlie can be like a dog with a bone when she thinks she’s onto something) by tones dropping over the radio attached to Castiel’s hip. 

_“City Medic Four respond to 800 Park Ave, Sunny Acres Retirement Home, Room 1501 for an ALS Medical.”_

Immediately, Castiel’s demeanor shifts, morphing into the consummate professional Dean knows he is. To be honest, watching that transformation only makes the situation in Dean’s pants more dire. “Charlie,” Castiel says, all confidence and take-no-shit attitude. “Please put us responding to that call and ask Dispatch to leave Four on standby at the fire scene while they complete overhaul.” 

“Aye aye, Captain,” Charlie says with a sloppy salute, holding the same hand up for Dean to high five as she passes by him to get back into the truck. “Later, skater.” 

“Bye, nerd.” 

As Castiel closes the back doors to the ambulance, he lingers inside Dean’s personal space bubble, only for a moment. “Will I still see you later?” he asks softly, his hand hovering _just_ above Dean’s chest and _god,_ does Dean ache to close the space between them. It’s all he can do to remind himself that this is a _tease,_ this is Cas fucking with him, nothing more. It’s not romance, it’s not affection, it’s just… foreplay. They are _not_ a couple, not on their way to being a couple, no matter what the already-crossed wires in Dean’s head want to believe. 

But sex and flirting, that Dean can do. He would never have agreed to this… this _thing_ with Cas if that weren’t already his strong suit. _Love ‘em and leave ‘em,_ that’s his own M.O., after all. 

“You know it,” he replies gruffly, hoping the rough scratch of his voice translates as pure arousal and not the mess of conflicted emotions being around an openly sexual _Cas_ brings out unwillingly. To both his great relief and disappointment, Castiel gives nothing away, just grins back at Dean before stepping away and disappearing around the side of the truck. 

Dean watches beneath the neon-lit red and blue letters that say “EMERGENCY/TRAUMA” across the overhang above his head as the ambulance pulls away, vanishing around the corner in a blur of flashing lights and wailing sirens. 

_What the fuck has he gotten himself into?_

***

The final hours of Dean’s shift drag, and not just because he spends a chunk of it sitting on a freezing cold bench outside the ER with nothing to do. It takes longer than Dean anticipated for Benny to get their crew released from the fire scene and to swing the engine by the ER to pick him up, long enough that Dean has to hide around the corner of the building when Cas and Charlie return to drop off the patient they picked up from the nursing home. Normally, he’d text his brother Sam (he’s a trauma surgeon here at Central) and—barring surgeries getting in the way—hang out with him in the doctor’s lounge for however long, but Sam’s not working tonight, because that’s just Dean’s luck.

Humiliatingly enough, all the waiting and hiding ends up being for nothing, anyway, since Castiel and Charlie swung by the fire scene to return Dean’s coat, the one he left in the cab of the ambulance. Benny hands it over with a questioning look but takes pity when the color drains from Dean’s face and he drops his forehead into his sweaty hand. “Don’t ask,” he mumbles into his palm. 

“Whateva you say, brotha,” Benny replies easily, but Dean catches him smirking as he saunters away across the fire bay. His reaction provokes a spike of anxiety in Dean that Benny _knows_ something, even though there’s no possible way that he could. 

When the clock strikes midnight, Dean’s out of the station like a shot, freshly showered to ditch the residual smoke and sweat clinging to his skin and dressed in clean clothing he packed for this express purpose. He’s in his car and halfway across town to Castiel’s apartment before the nerves really start to set in and the questions start running through his head. 

_Is this really a good idea? What if Cas isn’t actually into it, what if he’s just humoring Dean? What if Cas_ is _as into it as he says he is, but Dean’s a big fuckin’ disappointment? What if Castiel regrets it tomorrow? What if they both do?_

There’s no question in Dean’s mind—he wants whatever pieces of Cas he can get. They’re best friends and that’s great, Dean wouldn’t change that for the world. But Dean’s also an idiot, and he let himself fall for the one guy who doesn’t _do_ romance, the one guy who would never see him that way, even if he did. It’s too late for Dean’s feelings, that’s a done deal. And a smarter man, a _wiser_ man would probably point out that getting physical with Cas isn’t going to make them easier to deal with, not by a long shot.

But Dean _wants._ Wants to touch Cas, wants to know what it’s like to be touched by him. With this offer, with the _knowledge_ that Cas is open to it, how the hell is Dean supposed to pass that up? Maybe some other people are stronger than him, but when the dude he’s been pining over for _years_ offers to straight up fuck him ‘til he passes out, all in the name of “stress relief,” well. Saying, “fuck, yeah,” in response feels like a really understandable reply. 

Maybe it would have been easier to say no, or at least to hesitate, if they didn’t have the whole BDSM thing working like padding to ease them into it. Cas has never hidden his life as a Dom, opposite really. In fact, he’s so open about it, he’s probably responsible for half of the City Fire & EMS crews being twice as satisfied with what goes on in their bedrooms as before Cas moved here. And Dean, while he’s never _actually_ done any submissive stuff (or admitted to anyone besides Cas that he _would_ ), the fact is, he wants to. Really, Dean’s long been interested in dipping his toes in the proverbial water. You know, _if_ he could find someone suitable to take him on.

Not that he _meant_ to suggest he’d be open to Castiel doing exactly that, what with his experience and the fuckin’ playroom in his apartment and his _very_ big muscles that could maneuver Dean around by the hair as he— _wait, what was he thinking about?_

Right. So maybe he struck up a few leading conversations. Maybe he asked a few too many pointed questions. Maybe he let the back and forth between him and Cas wander into the dirty and sordid more often than he should have, for a guy who just wanted to be friends. But hell, Cas was low-risk back when they started hanging out, no matter what the subject matter of the shit they talked about had to do with. At the time, Cas had a long-term sub, and while he was as vocal about his indifference to both gender and sexuality as he was passionate about BDSM itself, the sub _was_ female, and Dean didn’t want to make any assumptions. Especially when Cas _also_ had no qualms about declaring that his relationship with said sub was “exclusive sexual-platonic”, whatever the fuck _that_ meant _,_ though to Cas, apparently it translated more or less to “fuck-buddies”. 

Anyway, in the end, it was _Cas_ who brought up the idea, and only after he’d ended things with said fuck buddy. Dean doesn’t know the details of exactly what happened and didn’t ask, just that the chick, Meg, wanted more emotionally and Castiel wasn’t prepared to give it. The way Cas talked about her—about romance and romantic relationships in general, actually—it was so cold, and it made Dean’s heart sink every time. Not that he thought he had a shot to begin with, but it was still tough to hear reality stated so plainly. Bottom line, Cas doesn’t do romance, fine.

Thing is, though, Dean does. He’s a damn romantic at heart, actually. Whether he admits that fact out loud to other people is neither here nor there, but being open about his feelings and being self-aware are two _very_ different things. Dean is unquestionably one but not the other.

And for that reason, he’s still not sure taking Cas up on his offer to let _Dean_ fill the “subby fuck buddy” space at Cas’ relationship table was the brightest idea. Sure, Cas had a point. They both could use the outlet. Stressful jobs and all, and Cas isn’t used to not having someone he can turn to in that way. He actually told Dean that he was feeling a little “lost, and ungrounded,” about his life since he broke things off with Meg, and what the hell was Dean supposed to say to that? He can’t very well have his best friend feeling _ungrounded._ Not when there’s something simple that he can do about it.

Getting fucked by six feet of gorgeous hard muscle, pouty, full lips and magnetic blue eyes isn’t exactly a hardship in Dean’s book, anyway. 

So when Castiel brought the possibility up, both of them tipsy and loose from one too many Margiekugels, Dean jumped on it so fast that Castiel seemed surprised, and wasn’t _that_ embarrassing? But at the end of the day, it’s _Cas,_ and Dean can’t help what he wants. For him, Cas has always been it, and Dean would wait forever if he thought that would matter, would let Cas set whatever boundaries he needed, would accept half of Cas or an eighth because just being around the weird, nerdy little dude makes him fuckin’ happy in a way nothing else has come close to in years. 

Maybe that’s pathetic, but Dean’s accepted it for what it is. If this is what he can get, if this is what Cas is willing and able to _give,_ Dean will take it. He’ll take it gladly and gratefully and be thankful for it. He has a best friend who he can go to bars and shoot pool and drink beers and watch cowboy movies with, and if they can occasionally fuck and do some other dirty stuff Dean isn’t overly clear on yet, then that’ll just be a bonus. 

Dean can be content with that. He can. It’s enough. 

By the time he reaches Castiel’s apartment highrise, Dean’s calm again and sure of his choices. He flashes back to the conversation he and Castiel had the night before, the “kinks” list they’d gone through in excruciating detail, the safewords they’d picked, the hard limits they set. Castiel was _very_ serious, ultra methodical, and Dean was both surprised and turned on by it, as much if not more than the teasing version of Cas he saw in the ambulance today. Because of that conversation, Dean has a working suspicion now that Cas would be a professional Dom if he could, though he told Dean that he’s held back from that by his own inability to connect with strangers. 

“I need an emotional connection with someone to have interest in dominating them,” Castiel had explained breezily, as if he was speaking about the way he takes his coffee. The pen he was using to mark up their contracts tipped and twirled between the lithe, thick fingers of his right hand, the only outward sign that Castiel was nervous at all. “I know that must seem strange, seeing as how it was my lack of romantic feelings for Meg that prompted me to move on, but I assure you, an emotional connection does not automatically equal romance. Or love, for that matter.” 

That made sense enough to Dean, and it certainly helped explain why Castiel was interested in _him._ An “emotional connection” was something he and Cas always seemed to have without trying—they just clicked, right off the bat. Besides his brother, Castiel is far and away the best friend Dean has ever had, no contest. But knowing that—and also knowing that Cas is aware _Dean_ has been stressed and wants to help him, as a friend—allows Dean to set boundaries in his own mind. This is an arrangement, a mutually beneficial _stress-relieving_ arrangement between two otherwise platonic friends, nothing more. 

And Dean is fine with that. 

If he wants this, then he has to be. 

As Dean locks his car and walks up the concrete sidewalk outside Castiel’s building, nodding a greeting at the doorman before heading over to the elevators and pressing the button for Cas’ floor, it suddenly occurs to him that he wants this very badly. Not just the sex and the opportunity to be close to Castiel, but the sub stuff, too, even if (despite the kinks list) he isn’t exactly sure what he’s getting into. Another shiver of excitement ripples down his spine, raising the hairs on his arms even underneath the long-sleeved tee he put on and his heavy leather jacket. 

Dean watches as the numbers cycle higher, anticipation rising along with the interest in his pants. Scowling, he glares down at his slightly-swollen groin and wills his dick to behave. The last thing he wants to do is appear over-eager or desperate. This is all new territory for both of them and the last thing Dean wants to do is scare Cas off by barging into his apartment with his traitorous dick already trying to run the show. 

The thought of Castiel rejecting him takes care of that issue like gangbusters, and by the time he’s knocking on Cas’ door, Dean’s not entirely sure he could get it up if he wanted to. His nerves are flying back to hit him full force, heart pounding away in his chest. Is Cas going to open the door dressed head-to-toe in leather and carrying a whip? Is he going to yank Dean through the door, shove him to his knees and piss down his throat? 

_Ridiculous,_ the last sane brain cell Dean possesses chastises him. _First of all, watersports are on both of your hard limit lists. Second, this is still Cas._

When the door opens and Cas is there, dressed in a navy blue t-shirt that has the City’s EMS logo on the breast and soft grey sweatpants, Dean can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief that he’s right. It _is_ still _Cas,_ and seeing him looking so casually comfortable while knowing what they’re about to do makes Dean want him more than ever. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says warmly, stepping back to hold the door open as Dean enters. It’s strange—Dean’s been in Cas’ space hundreds of times, passed out on the couch and even in Cas’ bed more nights than he can count, but it all feels new and different now in a way that makes his fingers and toes tingle. Looking around, Dean has no reason to feel that way—it’s the same open-plan living space; an entryway that bleeds into a living room with a step-up kitchen to the left and three doors to the right. Those lead to two bedrooms with a generous bathroom connecting them in between, all rooms he’s extremely familiar with, except for one. From experience (though he’s never actually been inside the playroom), Dean knows that the door on the left is Cas’ bedroom and the one on the right is their destination tonight. 

“Dean,” Castiel says softly, his hand on Dean’s forearm making him flinch and pull away. Even though it’s a reflex, Dean can see the hurt on Castiel’s face, no matter how quickly he schools it away. “We don’t have to do this,” Castiel reassures him. “There’s no pressure here. We could just have a beer, watch some TV.” 

Sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Dean mentally slaps himself. This wasn’t the start to their night he’d imagined and he deeply regrets making Castiel think he’s second-guessing things. He’s on edge, not looking for an out. “No,” he says firmly, punctuating his answer with a shake of his head. “No, Cas, I’m sorry, man. It’s not you, I swear, I’m just…” Dean raises his gaze to meet Castiel’s eyes and surprisingly, finds only soft understanding there. He smiles and Dean can’t help but smile back, Cas’ grin has always been contagious, as far as Dean is concerned. He takes another deep breath, and steps into Castiel’s space. 

They stand there like that for a long moment, just breathing each other’s air, eyes darting around each other’s faces. On instinct, Dean leans down to close the space between them, completely forgetting himself, forgetting that there are _rules_ to what they’re doing, that this isn’t just a casual hookup. 

It takes a gentle clearing of Castiel’s throat and two fingers to Dean’s lips, preventing their mouths from connecting, to bring Dean back. “Dean,” Cas says again. “I have no problem with—I know that we discussed kissing, but I think we should set the scene first, for both of our sakes. Boundaries and limits, they’re important.” His voice wavers slightly, and it’s the first moment in _any_ interaction Dean has ever had with Castiel about BDSM or their potential relationship where he hasn’t been confidently in charge. It throws Dean a little, but Castiel doesn’t belabor the moment, just steps away and pulls a small box out of a drawer in the little table that holds his “catch-all” bowl for his keys and wallet and such. “Here,” he says, holding it out for Dean to accept.

Raising an eyebrow, Dean looks over the box, unsure what to expect. It looks like it should hold some sort of jewelry, which is confusing. “Just open it,” Castiel encourages. “When we spoke last night you said you’d be open to a collar and I…” Dean opens the box and finds a thin, emerald green leather collar, less than an inch wide. It’s clasped by a metal o-ring that has a hinge, and Dean’s breath catches to look at it. This is a tangible symbol of what he’s about to do, but for the first time, he’s not nervous or scared. “If you aren’t ready, I understand, but I thought—”

“Put it on me,” Dean says huskily, working hard to control his voice. 

Castiel blinks, retracting the hand he had out, ready to whisk the gift away after Dean’s presumed rejection. “Yes?” he asks, sounding incredibly relieved. 

“Yea,” Dean replies with a nod, handing the box over and waiting patiently. 

As Castiel works the clasp open, a pleased smile spreads across his face. “I found it very useful with Meg, to utilize the collar when we were scening. It helped define the boundaries between our friendship and our interactions as Dom and Sub. When you come over, you could put it on—or ask me to put it on, if you like—and when you do, you’re mine. If you’d prefer to just hang out as friends, if you’re not in the mood, you leave the collar in its box, simple as that.” 

“I like it,” Dean replies, and he does. This is exactly the sort of reason he trusted Castiel to do this to begin with—Dean never would have thought of something like a collar, a physical signal to help separate their worlds. As Castiel’s deft fingers skate along the sensitive skin of his neck, securing the collar in place, Dean swallows heavily, but he’s feeling increasingly confident—increasingly _ready—_ by the moment. 

“You can also take the collar off at any time, to same effect,” Castiel elaborates. “It’s less dramatic than safewording and sometimes that can be a good thing. Of course, that option is always open to you, as well.” 

“Of course,” Dean murmurs, wholly distracted by the way one of Castiel’s hands lingers on his shoulder, the other just under his jaw, fingers tipping Dean’s chin up firmly while Castiel very blatantly admires the way the collar looks against his throat. 

“What is your safeword, Dean?” Castiel asks, his sparkling baby blues meeting Dean’s unflinching stare with hope and fire. 

“Impala,” Dean says clearly. 

“Good,” Castiel soothes, his hand trailing over Dean’s jaw, just under his ear and skating the line of where his hairline meets the nape of his neck. “And are you using it right now?”

“Absolutely not,” Dean replies, flashing Castiel a cheeky grin that makes him bite back his own amused smile.

“Don’t be a brat,” he warns, stepping away and motioning for Dean to follow. He walks casually, and it would take a better man than Dean not to gawk at the way Cas’ t-shirt stretches across the taut expanse of his back. “Would you like to see my playroom? It’s yours now, too. I want you to feel as welcome and at home there as I do. In fact, if you’re open to it, when you put on your collar it would be acceptable if you came in here directly. If you’re in the mood to scene, you may strip and kneel and wait for me. If you’d like to wear your collar but need to ease into scening or want to begin with non-sexual submission, keep your clothes on and kneel next to the couch.” 

While he talks, Castiel occasionally glances over his shoulder, but mostly he leaves Dean to listen and absorb, and for that, Dean is grateful. It takes him a few deep breaths and a small internal pep talk, but by the time Castiel’s holding the playroom door open, Dean’s fully on board and ready for whatever awaits him on the other side. He’s also secretly grateful for all the options Cas is giving him, the reminder that even stress-relieving submission isn’t _always_ sexual, something they touched on last night but that Dean wasn’t overly sure Castiel was interested in. It’s doing a lot for Dean’s rollercoaster nerves to hear that he _is._

As a show of equal trust and respect, Dean decides on the spur of the moment that he has to return the favor. He’s momentarily distracted, though, when he enters the playroom and his mouth drops open at the sight. He’s been in Cas’ room, so he knows that Cas’ corner apartment benefits from windows on two walls, but he wasn’t prepared for the ones in this room to be covered with floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains made of what looks like _velvet_ and hanging from silver rings, close to the ceiling. They’re not the only silver rings the ceiling boasts, either, that’s for sure. 

Somehow, even knowing Cas the way that he does, Dean was expecting creepy sex dungeon. Vampire lair, maybe, with dark walls and red-hued lanterns, thick carpet underfoot, but this is not that. The lights are on sliders, able to be brightened and dimmed at Cas’ will, and for show-and-tell purposes, he shifts them all the way on. Between the bright lighting and the white walls contrasted with dark hardwood floors, the room couldn’t be further from the goth-fantasy Dean envisioned. In fact, considering the elegant four-poster King pushed up against the wall all the way to their right, crowned with a gauzy canopy that’s more _soft romance_ than “Mistress of Pain”, Dean honestly can’t figure out _what_ to think.

Once the initial shock wears off, though, he starts to take in the details, and things make a lot more sense. Sure, Cas’ playroom bed looks like a dream to sleep on, but there are hooks in the ceiling above it, and all across the room leading up to it. There’s a Saint Andrew’s cross on the wall across from the bed, stained to match the dark wood of the floor, and multiple side-by-side armoires with closed cabinet doors and drawers. A couple of leather chairs and an upholstered ottoman are scattered across the room, and there’s a small, leather-covered bench of some sort shoved up against the far wall. Dean’s fairly certain it has restraints attached, although their location leaves him equal parts scared and aroused. He’s pretty sure that thing isn’t _just_ for spanking, although he hopes that’s part of it. 

“Holy shit,” he manages, knowing he’s gaping and unable to help it.

Instantly, Cas is at his side, hand on the small of Dean’s back, the warmth of his presence reassuring on its own although Dean isn’t scared, not really. It’s just a _lot,_ and he’s processing. “If this feels like too much, we don’t need to start in here,” Castiel offers, but Dean shakes his head no.

“No way,” Dean reiterates after another minute, when his eyes have stopped roaming over each new thing he finds and are able to focus on Castiel’s face instead. He’s curious, only has eyes for Dean, and Dean offers him the widest, most sincere grin he can manage. “It’s awesome, Cas. Seriously.” 

Dropping his eyes for a moment, Castiel’s shoulders lift and square off as he takes his own deep breath and turns his back to Dean, moving fluidly across the space. “In this room, and when you have the collar on, you should address me as Sir,” he reminds Dean, gently but firmly.

“Yes, Sir,” Dean parrots back immediately, watching in fascination as Castiel stops dead in the middle of the room, back still turned, and shivers. 

“Good boy,” he says quietly, and that’s it, Dean’s dick is definitely on board with _all_ of this. “Also, just for your information, as we talked about before, I’ve replaced anything in this room used by anyone else previously.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dean tells him, and Castiel makes a strangled sort of sigh that Dean can only take as satisfaction since he doesn’t turn around, instead rummaging in the top drawer of one of the armoires for god knows what. Dean takes advantage of the moment, circling back to his original plan to repay Cas for working so hard to make him so damn comfortable. He strips quickly, dumps his clothing off to the side, and kneels on the hard floor. It’s not exactly a natural position for him, but Dean forces himself to adjust, keeping his eyes down and his hands behind his back, just the way they’d talked about in negotiations.

It’s strange—he’s not entirely sure what he expected to feel in this moment. Exposed or embarrassed, maybe. Self-conscious or awkward, definitely. But right now, while he waits for Cas to turn around and notice his offered submission, all Dean feels is _excited._ While this is a whole new facet of his relationship with Cas, something completely foreign and unexplored, Dean is still perfectly comfortable _with_ Cas himself, and it translates. Weirdly, the only thing he can seem to focus on specifically right now is the hope that he’ll get a chance to earn Cas calling him a “good boy” again, preferably soon.

His dick agrees, plumping up against his thigh without permission, and Dean wonders if Castiel will mind. The thought that he could end up punished by Cas’ hand is almost as thrilling and enticing as the alternative. 

The shuffle of Cas’ bare feet on the floor and the sharp intake of breath that follows are the only signs Dean has that Castiel has seen him, but they’re plenty. He may be a newbie in practice, but Dean’s spent hours talking to Cas about this very thing. Additionally, he’s spent even longer sitting in front of his laptop, researching and reading about the blanks Cas didn’t or couldn’t fill in about being a sub. When he wanted to, Dean could be an excellent student—devouring each piece of information and filing it away for a theoretical time he never thought would actually come to pass. 

As such, today, Dean is ready. He knows very well what Cas wants and what he wants to give. He works hard to control his breathing, to keep calm and still with his eyes focused on the floor and his head slightly bowed. He can do this, he can be good for Cas, and in return, Cas will give him what he wants and then some, Dean believes that wholeheartedly.

Soft footsteps on the floor are followed by Cas’ feet appearing in Dean’s field of vision, and Cas has _nice_ feet, well-kept toes and soft-looking skin, at least what’s not hidden by the drooping cuff of his sweatpants. That certainly fits with the image Cas projects; he’s neat and orderly and takes care of himself in ways that _most_ emergency service providers let go by the wayside or never think of to begin with. Dean’s always known that about Cas, but kneeling naked in front of the guy gives him a whole new appreciation for it. 

The hand scratching through his hair is unexpected and Dean, for all his surety that he can be still and perfect for as long as necessary, breaks almost instantly. He curses himself for leaning into the touch, but the quiet growl that comes out of Cas’ mouth suggests he doesn’t mind. Cas’ fingers tighten and Dean’s head jerks back, tipping his face up towards the ceiling.

With the bright lights still on full blast behind him, Cas is essentially haloed by them, framed like the angel he is come to rescue Dean, to pull him from his own mind, his own personal hell, in a way only Castiel can. Dean lets himself be tugged, wetting his lips subconsciously and watching as the lust on Castiel’s face transforms his whole demeanor and Dean has _waited,_ he’s wanted Cas to look at him like _that_ since the first day they met. _Fuck me,_ he thinks, willing Cas to hear him. _Take whatever you want._

But to Dean’s dismay, Castiel releases his hair and steps away, closing his eyes and shaking his head and hands, seemingly trying to center himself. Not that Dean’s ready to be hog-tied and fucked raw from both ends just yet, but it’s still somewhat disappointing. The idea that Cas was close to losing control over just seeing him kneeling is intoxicating. It makes Dean feel powerful, _wanted,_ and he’s not far off from acting up just to have Cas’ laser-focused attention directed his way again. In the end, he sits quietly, watching Castiel pace and waiting for him to say something.

“I reviewed our lists again today,” Castiel says finally, almost conversationally, as he moves towards one of the three huge armoires to his right. Dean watches with interest as Cas opens both cabinet doors at the top of the middle one, sliding them back and out of sight so that the interior is exposed. Inside is…a stereo? Well, that’s not exactly what Dean was expecting, but it’s interesting, he’ll give Cas that. 

While he fiddles with the buttons and what looks like a CD, Castiel continues speaking. “I struggled somewhat, to come up with a satisfying first scene. Something that wouldn’t scare you or be too overwhelming, but would spark your interest, and mine too. It’s been longer than I’d like since I’ve scened, and I fear that my desires may be clouding my judgment, so for the purposes of our first time, I thought I would ask. Is spanking—bare hand—” Cas turns away from the armoire and holds up his right hand, flicking his wrist as if Dean might not be following, as if his _entire fucking world_ hasn’t narrowed to Cas and his hand. “—something you’d find acceptable tonight? Followed by penetration, so long as we are both still interested and consenting.” 

Dean’s mouth is suddenly dry as the Sahara while his brain supplies images of what Cas’ scenario might look like and he nearly forgets to reply, that Cas is _waiting_ for him to do exactly that. “Yes, sir,” he rushes to say, and Castiel nods with satisfaction. 

“Very good,” he affirms and Dean preens, even though it’s hardly directed praise and much more likely a colloquialism Cas didn’t even consider Dean might take another way. He still enjoys hearing it. “Stand up, step over to the bed. Feet apart on the floor, chest and arms on the mattress, make yourself comfortable from there however you like. Don’t worry about whether you’re positioning yourself ‘right’—” Here, Cas pauses to make air quotes and the glimpse of the nerdy little dude Dean is much more familiar with nearly whips him out of the moment and makes him snort. He catches himself just in time and manages to keep his amused smile to himself as he steps over to the bed. “If need be, I will move you myself,” Castiel finishes, and the commanding, assured tone of his voice wipes the smirk right off of Dean’s face. 

Bending over the mattress—which has a frame raised high enough off of the ground to not make Castiel’s request _too_ awkward to get into—is much more intimidating than kneeling naked on the floor. The bed’s fluffy comforter is pulled down, revealing durable cotton sheets that feel cool and soft against Dean’s skin as he sinks forward. The feel of the mattress taking his weight tells him he was right about this thing being a dream to sleep on—and just like that, Dean wonders if he’ll get to find out. It occurs to him that Cas probably keeps this second bed for exactly that reason—some distance between scening with his partners and his own space; no romance. No lines crossed. Dean gets it, but even still, the awesome mattress suddenly seems a lot less enticing.

As he spreads his legs and tries to shift his weight from foot to foot so that he’s more comfortable, Dean’s all too aware that he’s now fully exposed. There’s a fan circulating the air above them, and the slight movement feels like someone breathing on his hole—not at all unpleasant, but a _very_ clear reminder that there’s no hiding, not like this. 

Hands clenching and unclenching in the sheets around him, Dean tries to wait patiently, and thankfully, Castiel doesn’t keep him long. The sounds of Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” fill the room, and Castiel appears at his side. “I thought this might make you more comfortable,” he explains, and Dean smiles despite himself.

“Thank you, Sir,” he says, making sure to turn his mouth away from the bedclothes so that Cas can hear him. He gets a firm squeeze of his bicep in acknowledgment and a glimpse of a now-shirtless Castiel, defined muscles of his arms and torso begging for Dean’s touch, something he’s not sure he’ll even get to have. 

When Castiel steps up behind him, he hums softly before cupping one of Dean’s cheeks and then pushing his palm up and over the expanse of Dean’s back. “Beautiful,” he says softly, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief, over what, he isn’t entirely sure. It feels good to have Castiel’s reassurance and praise, though, and Dean starts to relax into it. He feels Cas’ hands on his hips, on the insides of his thighs. His foot nudges Dean’s on the ground, carefully working his body into a better position for his purposes. It’s not exactly sexual, but Dean’s body responds like it is, taking his cock the rest of the way to rock-hard between his legs. 

Satisfied with the way he’s displayed, both of Castiel’s hands return to Dean’s ass, kneading his cheeks enthusiastically. “I think we’ll do ten today,” Castiel muses out loud. “Five on each cheek, _after_ we get the blood flowing. Three warm-up hits on each side first, how does that sound?” 

“Good, Sir,” Dean replies breathlessly, struggling not to shift and wiggle, wanting more than anything to push back against Castiel’s groin and find out if he’s as affected by all this as Dean is. _What if he isn’t?_ Pushing his face into the sheets, Dean decides he doesn’t want to know, not yet. Cas sounds like he’s enjoying himself, and that’s enough for now. 

“Color, Dean,” Cas demands and Dean nods, sucking in a breath.

“Green, Sir,” he replies quickly. 

“I am green as well,” Castiel replies good-naturedly. “Extremely so.” He bends forward to nose at the space in between Dean’s shoulder blades, his hand gripping Dean’s hip possessively, and Dean has to fight hard to stay still, to not shove himself over. He wants to, wants to flip onto his back, to grab Cas and yank him down to kiss and wrap his legs around and whatever other stupid thing that would undoubtedly ruin this _very_ awesome thing they have going. It doesn’t help when Cas’ groin presses flush against the crack of his ass and _fuck yes,_ Cas _is_ hard. _Yes._ Dean groans a little, can’t help it, and Castiel chuckles. 

“Warm-up hits should sting but not hurt. Do you trust me?” 

“Yes,” Dean breathes, forgetting the formality, but Castiel lets it go as he stands back up and lands three light swats in a row to Dean’s left cheek. They leave him stinging and a little breathless, but not in pain and surprisingly, desperately craving more. 

“Color?” Castiel checks in and Dean nods into the sheets once again.

“Green,” he affirms. “So green.” 

Three swats to the right cheek and Dean has to actively stop himself from rocking back on his heels, biting his lip to hold back the demand threatening to roll off of his tongue for _more, more, more._ Castiel notices, probably sees him trying to chew off his lip, and immediately shoves his own thumb into Dean’s mouth without warning, prying it open. “Say it,” he orders, still-clothed groin now pressed flush against Dean’s thigh, teasing both of them. “Whatever you’re holding back, say it.” 

Opening his eyes, from the angle he’s laying Dean can _just_ see Cas’ face peering down at him, a confusing mix of arousal and concern. He’s starting to get a little hazy in his head, but in a good way, and the last thing in the world he wants Cas to do is _stop._ “More,” he murmurs. “Please, Cas, more.” To punctuate his words, he rocks on his heels just a _little,_ just enough to give Cas some friction.

“Oh,” Castiel says softly, apparently surprised that _this_ is what Dean was thinking, as he straightens up and returns to kneading Dean’s cheeks. “With pleasure. Count out loud, please.” 

The first real strike is more shock than pain, and Dean relishes it. The feel of Castiel’s hand smacking his skin, the slight burn that settles in after he pulls away, it’s far better than Dean imagined. “One,” he says as he shifts against the sheets, sinking down both mentally and physically. Castiel spanks him five times on each cheek total, just as he promised, alternating sides with each hit and unpredictably kneading his cheeks in between, stacking the pain vs pleasure sensations in a way that keeps Dean on his toes. By the time they get to _nine_ and _ten,_ Dean’s deliriously lost, barely able to vocalize the count, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. One spills over and tracks down his cheek, leaving a wet, cooling path against his fevered skin. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean knows he’s not being as still as he should be, rocking into Castiel’s touch and often pleading for more without being asked to speak. But Castiel doesn’t punish him for that, instead he encourages it, even responds to it. 

The skin of Dean’s ass is on _fire_ when Castiel checks his color again, and even though Dean has said _ten,_ knows peripherally that the spanking is over, he’s not ready to be finished. “Green,” he replies, before Cas has even finished asking the question. “Fuck me, _please_ , Sir,” he moans, rubbing his cock against the side of the mattress, in desperate search for friction. 

“None of that,” Castiel scolds, gently pulling Dean’s hips away from the bed and purposefully letting his thumbs graze over irritated skin, which only makes Dean moan more. “You’ve been so good, Dean,” he continues. “So very good, and good boys always get rewarded. You’ll get what you want, I assure you.” 

Dean sniffles somewhat pitifully as the sound of lube snapping open can be heard behind him, Castiel’s fingers finding his entrance easily. The cool slide, the relief of penetration has Dean gasping right out of the gate, fisting hands in the sheets and squeezing his eyes closed against the onslaught of sensation. Quiet, methodical, and efficient, Castiel opens him up without fanfare or pretense, scissoring fingers until they move comfortably in and out in a not-quite-enough glide. Dean’s glad he’s not in charge right now, that Cas isn’t asking him his opinion about this, if he’s ready or needs more prep. It’s all out of his hands and Dean’s _glad._ He lays there, raw and sore and exposed but still wanting _more,_ willing to take whatever Cas sees fit to give him. 

The crinkle of aluminum foil is the only thing that catches Dean’s attention besides Castiel’s _perfect_ fuckin’ hands—they’d decided to use condoms for the time being, and Dean’s never regretted a decision more. He wants to _feel_ Cas pressing against his walls, wants the slow drag of skin-on-skin as Cas fills him up, wants to know what it’s like to have Cas dripping out of him when they’re done. Dean’s delirious mind wants to beg for those things but something stops him and he lets it go, for now. 

It’s gone anyway, just like every other coherent thought in his mind, when the head of Cas’ cock pushes against his rim and pops inside. Castiel groans and Dean can’t help but let a “fuck, _yes,”_ slip from his lips.

“So tight,” Castiel murmurs, almost to himself as he slides forward until his thighs are flush with Dean’s, his balls knocking against Dean’s own. Swallowing his demands, Dean buckles down and forces himself to wait patiently, rewarded when he does by Cas’ hand carding through his hair once again. “So good for me,” Cas says, his hips starting to move and circle, dragging deliciously against Dean’s insides with every small stroke. “Go ahead,” he says, “tell me what you want.” 

“God—”

“Sir,” Castiel cuts him off with amusement, though he doesn’t stop teasing Dean with those killer fuckin’ hips. “Or Castiel, but definitely not God.” 

“Sir, please, fuck me hard!” Dean pivots verbally as soon as Castiel requests it, joke or not, and he feels an approving hand tighten in his hair in response. To Dean’s great relief, the pace and depth of his thrusts increases, and then Cas is threading an arm under his left leg, encouraging Dean’s knee up onto the mattress. The resulting angle is so much better, and Castiel nails Dean’s prostate on nearly every thrust in or drag back out. Waves of pleasure shoot up his spine and down to his toes, mixing in perfect tandem with the sharp ache in his abused ass. 

While Dean’s been fucked plenty of times before, it’s never been like _this._ With abandon, so totally vulnerable and open, completely at someone else’s mercy and because he _wants to be._ Dean gets it, he _really fuckin’ gets it,_ and as Castiel reaches around to strip his cock, making Dean seize up and come hard all over the nice white cotton bed sheets, he’s got no regrets, not one. Not even that he’s doing this with a guy he’s so in love with he couldn’t see straight, blinding orgasm aside. 

As he comes down, Dean lies blissfully sated and pliant on the bed as Castiel yanks his hair and chases his own orgasm, thighs pounding rough against Dean’s stinging ass and nearly milking a second orgasm out of him via his prostate. Cas comes grunting and grabbing at Dean, ending up with an arm around Dean’s waist, pulling him tight against his chest as he yanks them both down onto the bed to recover. 

Tentatively, Dean covers the hand splayed across his belly with his own, just for a minute. It’s almost terrifying, how good it feels to be held by Cas like this, after what they just did. So much so that Dean’s regretful when Cas pulls out of him, when he gets up immediately to tie off and toss the condom and to make his way over to the open armoire. The stereo is playing “Kashmir” now, and Castiel turns it off, flips it over to something soft and instrumental. 

Blinking up at the ceiling, Dean wonders when the lights went down, but they have, dim and nearly off in comparison to the brightness level when Castiel first brought him in here. Vaguely, Dean hears a door open and closed, accompanied by some light clanking, like glass in a fridge. He wonders if he should get up, but then remembers about _aftercare_ and how Castiel had emphasized its importance _._ Dean wonders what exactly that will entail and selfishly hopes for more cuddling. 

It’s only seconds later that Cas appears back at his side, leaning down to press a kiss to Dean’s forehead and then cock his head up towards the head of the bed. “Come up here,” he says gently, leaving a grounding hand on Dean’s shoulder that he feels strangely grateful for. With some difficulty, thanks to sore muscles and a fiery ass, Dean crawls up the bed and collapses again with his head on a pillow and his arms tucked underneath, letting out a small sigh of contentment. Castiel climbs up next to him and soothes a hand down his back, stopping before he reaches red skin.

“Drink this before you pass out,” he instructs, and Dean cracks open an eyelid to see a bottle of orange juice thrust in his face. Somehow, he manages to get up onto his elbows and to suck down half the drink in one go. It tastes and feels good sliding down his dry throat, enough that he lifts the bottle and finishes it off without having to be prodded. “Good, Dean,” Castiel praises. “You are so very good.” 

“Alright,” Dean grumbles before hiding his face in the pillow, as if _compliments_ are the most humiliating thing he’s faced in the last hour or however long they’ve been in here. 

To his relief, Castiel just sighs and Dean can almost _feel_ him shaking his head. “I’m going to let that one go because technically, the scene is over,” he says, not unkindly but still very firm. “But we are going to work on your ability to accept praise.” 

“Fine,” Dean mumbles directly into the pillow, and Castiel pinches his ass. “Hey!” 

“Don’t be a brat,” he murmurs, uncapping some bottle of something and squeezing a healthy portion of whatever’s in it into his hand. “This is arnica gel, it will help with any bruising.” Castiel’s deft hands swipe the stuff over Dean’s abused skin, and it feels wonderfully soothing, enough that Dean feels safe to relax down into the mattress once again. “I also brought ice,” Castiel continues, draping a soft cloth across Dean’s ass and resting what he assumes from the cold is a bag of ice over that. “Probably excessive, but you’ve never been spanked before.” 

After that, Castiel hesitates, though his hand never leaves Dean’s skin. “Considering this was a first-time scene for you, I would feel much better if you’d stay the night. I’d like to sleep in here with you, close contact after an intense scene can help ward off drop, something I’d very much like to avoid either of us experiencing, especially after your first time. But if you’re not comfortable with that, I could be right next door…” 

“Cas,” Dean says patiently, turning his head on the pillow so that he can look up at his friend. Immediately, Dean registers the pointed cocking of Cas’ eyebrow, the touch of his fingers to his own neck. “Sir,” Dean corrects, slightly sarcastically. “I know we’ve set some boundaries here, and I get it, but you and me have slept in the same bed plenty of times.” Castiel still looks hesitant, his gaze darting over to the closed door of the playroom like he’s thinking about bolting for an escape. 

Dean sighs, usually he’s the one with the shitty communication skills. “I’d rather have you,” he says, reaching out to drop a hand onto Cas’ thigh, and _that_ gets his attention.

The mischievous little grin Cas often wears returns, and he looks softly down his nose at Dean. “Alright,” he says simply, picking up a remote that Dean hadn’t noticed from the side table next to the bed. With a flick of his index finger, he’s dimming the lights the rest of the way to off. When Castiel slides in next to him and pulls the covers up over their bodies, Dean doesn’t think twice about going into his arms. _This is dangerous,_ the still-sane part of his brain warns, but Dean can’t bring himself to care. Dangerous, but also what he came for. Cas, warm and real, keeping Dean safe in his arms—it would take a stronger man than Dean to say no to an offering like that.

So he stays, and they sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: The morning after, Cas’ POV, at work on the ambulance, Cas the distractible Dom, Dean’s impatient, Cas has some confusing secrets too. 
> 
> RIT= Rapid Intervention Team. A group of firefighters who stay packed up for the duration of a fire scene for the sole and dedicated purpose of rescuing other firefighters in distress. Usually dispatched specifically to a scene, i.e. "Company 12 for RIT." 
> 
> If I use words or refer to situations y'all don't understand, please let me know in the comments and I'm happy to explain! Sometimes I forget what is common knowledge and what is not.
> 
> I'm also taking suggestions for "scenes" y'all would like to see: leave your hopes and dreams in the comments, or if you're embarrassed, send me an anon message on [Tumblr](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/)(send me a message, but don't be embarrassed of what you like, k?). Or on [Twitter](twitter.com/caslostwings)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas needs Dean, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings:  
> -semi-graphic description of the aftermath of a car accident with a teenage fatality  
> -job-related stress and anxiety for Cas, coping with a traumatizing incident  
> -Sex-related tags: bondage/restraint, bottom dean, blowjobs, light face-fucking, breathplay, edging, anal, orgasm delay/control, vibrators, butt plug, praising, did I get them all? probably not.
> 
> A HUGE thank you to [CoinofStone](https://coinofstone.tumblr.com) and [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses) for editing this and making it readable and not trash. Thank them if you like grammar and things that are not word salad.
> 
> The fanart banner at the top is by the lovely @[wingsandimpalas](wingsandimpalas.tumblr.com), thank you so much!!!

Castiel dreams in color. Bright, startling technicolor that comes alive and sucks him down into his deepest, wildest, most desperately secret fantasies. Unlike out in the real world, these fantasies aren’t headlining a potent mix of sex and pain, of dominance and submission, of clawing to keep hold of his sanity by taking control in the bedroom. No, these dreams are interminably soft and they feature one thing, and one thing only.

Green eyes. Freckles. Strong arms and a gentle smile, both wrapping Castiel up in their warmth and carrying him away. In Castiel’s dreams, the entire universe comes to an end and rebuilds itself over and over again, millennia upon millenia, stardust and light, imploding and exploding, collapsing in on itself before rushing outwards once again on endless repeat. The _only_ constant, the _only_ thing that matters in any of it is that he and Dean are together, always together. 

In Castiel’s dreams, he can be honest. He can admit that he’s in love with his best friend because in his dreams, _Dean_ loves him back. He holds Castiel’s hand in public, rests a casual arm around his shoulder as they wait in line for the movies, offers to switch plates at dinner when the dish he orders comes out looking like _exactly_ what Castiel didn’t realize he was hungry for. And he says so. He puts his lips next to Castiel’s ear and whispers it softly, he yells it across crowded rooms, wanting everyone to hear. 

In Castiel’s dreams, everything is perfect. Especially tonight, with fantasies so vivid he can smell the natural scent of Dean’s skin, the cologne he wears over it, even the faint traces of spicy deodorant and silicone-based gel in his hair. But it’s not just smell, he can _feel_ Dean too. Shifting in his arms, nuzzling into the hollow of his neck, pressing their bodies together from cheek to toe. Warmth and affection flows freely between them, a perfectly synchronous pair, like a key that fits a lock Castiel didn’t even know he wanted to open. 

It’s one of the best night’s sleep Castiel’s ever had, and an unprecedented mindfuck when he opens his eyes and Dean is actually there. 

Abruptly wide awake, Castiel shoves himself away from the other man so quickly that he nearly tumbles backward off the bed. Heavy sleeper that Dean is, he barely notices, snorting a little and rolling over to snuffle into the pillow beneath his head. Castiel sits stock still up by the headboard, barely breathing with his legs curled underneath him, one hand fisted in his hair and the other in his mouth, teeth biting down on his index finger in shock and shame. It’s not until Dean is safely snoring away again that Castiel allows himself to begin to relax and to try and regain his bearings. 

The truth is, he’s not ready to see or interact with Dean this morning, not yet. Not with his face still flushing red, his mind still rushing like a mountain river in spring, overflowing with images from a night full of dreams like _that._

There’s some kind of irony here, Castiel’s sure of it. Most people feel embarrassment over boner-inducing, x-rated, pornographic dreams accidentally starring their best friends. Not Castiel, he lives those outright. No, _he_ has to be ashamed over _romance._ His mother always said he came off the assembly line with a crack in his chassis; she’d be so proud to know how truly committed he remains to breaking the mold.

It might be funny, if it wasn’t so damn lonely and confusing.

Regardless of all that, though, it’s been a long time since Castiel shared a bed with someone in this particular way. True, Dean wasn’t wrong when he said they’d slept together previously—but that was different. Two platonic friends, passing out fully-clothed on top of the blankets after polishing off a bottle of whiskey, is a far cry from curling up naked together after Castiel’s dick was buried in Dean’s ass. And that’s just his experiences with _Dean_. 

The only other person he’s shared a bed with in _this_ way was Meg, and it’s what led to their undoing. Blurring the lines between aftercare and affection, Meg could never properly separate the two, not in the way Castiel wanted her to. Maybe that was unfair, but he couldn’t control that he never developed feelings for her beyond the physical. It didn’t mean she wasn’t a valuable friend, that he didn’t care immensely about her well-being, but Castiel just couldn’t make himself fall in love. Can anyone?

And now here he is, making the same mistakes but in the reverse. Now _this_ is ironic, he knows that for sure. Perhaps this is karma, perhaps it’s what Castiel deserves after being so careless with Meg’s heart. Here he is, finally able to understand exactly what she was feeling, and it’s because he’s opening the door to have his own heart broken in precisely the same terrible way. 

_Idiot,_ Castiel chastises himself as he rubs his hands across his face before bracing them carefully on the side of the bed and standing up. The mattress barely moves and Castiel sends up a quick thank you to whoever might be listening above before tip-toeing across the room on silent feet. As he moves, he skirts away from any boards that he knows will creak and makes it out of the room without disturbing Dean’s slumber. 

Inside the attached bathroom, Castiel slumps against the door with a sigh of relief, grateful for the reprieve and the moment of privacy. In truth, there’s nothing he wants more than to crawl back in bed beside Dean. To wrap arms around his slim waist and pull him close, to wake him up with soft kisses to the back of his neck and a gentle hand cupping his cock. _Like lovers,_ Castiel thinks, _like two people who might be falling in love._

He can’t do that, of course, and those inappropriate thoughts and desires he’s projecting onto Dean are the reason why. It’s harder to _think,_ harder to remember that when Dean is laying next to him, looking so innocent and peaceful in his sleep. So soft, so beautiful and perfect and willing to lay in Castiel’s arms and oh, _hell,_ he has got to get his shit together.

In retrospect, the smartest thing Castiel could possibly have done at this point was precisely what he did. Get the hell out of that room before Dean woke up. _Boundaries, limits,_ Castiel reminds himself. If he wants to have this new dynamic with Dean, he _has_ to respect the fact that Dean is not interested in a romantic relationship with him. That was made perfectly clear when they talked before. It’s not as if Castiel hadn’t laid his cards on the table—after Meg, how could he not? That’s just not a mistake you want to make twice. 

But Dean seemed to retreat emotionally when Castiel spoke about how he struggled to connect with Meg, how he never developed romantic feelings for her, how he longed for someone who understood, who he could finally be on the same level with. There are times when Dean looks at him a certain way, when he says various things, that Castiel wonders if he wasn’t clear _enough,_ if perhaps Dean _didn’t_ get the memo, but ultimately, that’s wishful thinking and he knows it. He _has_ to stop holding out hope that Dean will somehow magically develop feelings for him because that mindset will only get them both hurt.

At the end of the day, _this,_ this beautiful dominant/submissive relationship that Dean—by some miracle—has consented to, is what he gets. Staying with Dean last night was the right thing to do. Risking drop isn’t worth it, not for either of them, but from here on out, he’ll have to be more careful. Dean can stay in over in that bed whenever he likes, but Castiel will make it a point to relocate to his own room once his sub is asleep. 

That is, if Dean even _wants_ to continue their new relationship going forward, something Castiel can’t assume. All the more reason for him to be happy and grateful for whatever Dean is willing to offer to begin with.

It’s enough. It has to be. 

Turning his attention to his morning routine, Castiel takes his time washing up. Brushing his teeth meticulously, styling his hair, washing his face and body before wandering naked into his actual bedroom to find some clean clothes. He ignores the empty bed, standing cold and unused in the corner, and tries not to think of Dean warm and pliant in the other room. Rummaging through his drawers, Castiel remembers that he works tonight so there’s no sense in getting dressed up before then. Honestly, he’s just going to be cleaning up around the apartment and mentally debriefing once Dean is gone. 

His stomach twists when he inadvertently thinks about Dean again, still sleeping peacefully in the other room, sated and unbothered. Determined, Castiel ignores the pull tugging at his gut to return to him. _Boundaries._ T-shirt and boxer-briefs it is.

Out in the kitchen, he sets coffee brewing and cracks eggs into a pan, scrambling and seasoning them absently while he reviews the scene from the night before in his head. It truly was an excellent first encounter, and Castiel feels good about his decision to go easy on Dean, to start small and simple with something they both needed and could definitely handle. Truthfully, touching Dean for the first time—being granted full access to every part of his body, being handed complete control of his pleasure, it was a lot for Castiel, too. Being an experienced dom makes a scene like they did look simple on paper, but to add in the confusing emotions he feels towards Dean himself? That changes the entire game, and Castiel is at least self-aware enough to recognize and account for that. 

Still, he’s pleased with his own performance, and Dean seemed more than satisfied as well. The fact that he’s still unconscious supports that theory; Castiel knows first-hand that the man rarely sleeps more than four hours at a time, especially when he’s not in his own bed. Since they fell asleep around three a.m. and it’s nearly noon now, that’s double what Dean is used to getting. At the _very_ least, they accomplished what they set out to do—blow off some steam, shed some stress, help each other relax and get more quality rest and relaxation. That, at least, Castiel feels he can be proud of. He just hopes it was enough to inspire Dean to want to do it again.

A yawn from behind him has Castiel whirling around, letting the hot pan he’s holding clatter down onto the stovetop noisily. It’s probably just as well, since the sight that greets his eyes likely would have had him losing control of his limbs regardless. If ever there was a doubt in Castiel’s mind that the sub is the one with all the power and control in a relationship, Dean himself would clear up that confusion simply by existing.

“Dean,” Castiel exclaims, knowing full-well that it’s useless to try and pretend he’s not affected by a sleep-rumpled Dean, clad only in his boxers and collar, standing easily in the middle of Castiel’s kitchen like he belongs there. 

“Stole your toothbrush, Sir,” Dean says ruefully, shifting on his feet and rubbing at his forearms, like he thinks Castiel might scold him and isn’t sure whether he _wants_ that or not. It does things to Castiel, has him crowding Dean up against the breakfast bar without a second thought. _This is allowed,_ he tells himself as Dean’s hands find their way to his waist. _Dean is still wearing his collar, he’s still playing by the rules, and so am I._

Still, Castiel should check. Perhaps Dean was just being cheeky with the earlier moniker, and doesn’t even realize that his collar is still on.

Watching Dean’s face carefully for any change in his expression, Castiel ignores the way their chests are pressed together, the way his groin is already stirring with interest, and raises his fingers to slip underneath the thin leather wrapped around Dean’s neck. “This truly looks lovely on you,” he remarks, enjoying the way Dean blushes under his attentions. “Did you mean to leave it on? In the future, I won’t ask. But seeing as how this is new for you…” Trailing off, Castiel pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth and looks up at Dean with wide eyes. It’s a dirty move, and Dean’s gaze goes predictably glassy, which is satisfying. 

“Oh, I meant to leave it on. Sir.” 

That’s all the permission Castiel needs. He reaches up to cup the back of Dean’s head and pull him in for a searing kiss, more tongue and possession than anything else, but that’s how it needs to be for Castiel right now. To his delight, Dean melts in his arms, letting his head be tipped and pulled in whatever direction to Castiel’s liking, moaning and sighing as he allows himself to be manipulated. It takes every ounce of strength Castiel has in him to pull away but he does it, stepping back with a hand on Dean’s bare chest, pleased with the way Dean’s eyes stay closed long after his mouth is gone. 

“Go and kneel by the couch,” he instructs. “You may take a pillow for your knees, the one on the side, there.” He watches as Dean goes, noting the way his boxers have ridden up slightly in the back, really highlighting the striations of muscle in Dean’s ass and thighs. He’s stunning from any angle, but walking away nearly nude is next-level, as far as Castiel is concerned. 

Ripping his gaze away, he turns back to the mess on the stove, grabbing a plate and transferring a sizable portion of eggs over to it. From inside the fridge, Castiel retrieves a bowl of fruit salad, scooping a serving out and piling it next to the eggs. He takes his time, pouring a cup of coffee as well and making it up the way he knows Dean likes—black, one sugar—even though he personally prefers his coffee to resemble melted ice cream. When he’s satisfied, Castiel rips off a paper towel from the roll and grabs a fork from the drawer, picking them up alongside the plate and mug and making his way over to Dean. 

When he sits down on the couch with the plate in his lap and places the mug on the side table, he meets Dean’s gaze head-on and cocks an eyebrow. “You don’t need to do this,” he makes sure to take a moment and say out loud. “If you’d like, you can remove that collar, make yourself a plate and join me on the couch. However,” Castiel pauses, shifting his gaze to the plate and selecting a juicy-looking blueberry between his thumb and forefinger. Raising the fruit up to Dean’s eye-level, he holds it out. “I don’t want to be unclear. I would very much like to feed you, exactly like this.” 

Dean’s face does several things very quickly, and Castiel can tell that he’s thinking, which makes him hope he isn’t pushing too hard. Hand-feeding was on Dean’s list of kinks that weren’t known to him but that he was open to trying. However, part of Castiel’s job is figuring out appropriate _timing_ for such introductions to new things. They’ve only begun their exploration together in the last twenty-four hours, only decided to _keep_ exploring within the last ten minutes. 

He’s about to give Dean an out, to let him off the hook without consequence when Dean surprises him. Castiel watches in abject fascination as Dean leans forward, parting his lips and closing them around Castiel’s fingertips, sucking the blueberry into his mouth in a _much_ more erotic fashion than is strictly necessary. It leaves Castiel wholly affected, cock stirring unbidden to life between his legs. This is his party, Dean’s only doing what was asked of him, and yet he’s so easy and free about it the act could be mistaken for something he does every day by choice. Not for the first time, Castiel finds himself in awe of the man kneeling before him, and incredibly interested in pushing him to his limits. 

For now, he simply pops a strawberry in his own mouth and chews thoughtfully, trying to appear more together than he feels. After several more bites of fruit (and Dean learning that he can absolutely get away with using his tongue to swipe the juice dripping from Castiel’s fingers), he starts gathering up some eggs on the fork and offering them to Dean directly. Interestingly enough, Dean looks disappointed by the change in utensil, but Castiel sticks to his guns and doesn’t sub out the fork for his fingers. Part of training Dean will be teaching him that he doesn’t always get to dictate terms, that he doesn't always get what he wants if it isn’t in line with what Castiel needs. The reverse is true as well, of course, Castiel’s not selfish.

While he adamantly refuses to feed Dean eggs with his fingers, he does pause to allow Dean to drink, with Castiel holding the mug, of course. Dean’s surprised to find the coffee made to his liking and he says so, dropping a delayed “sir” at the end of his remark, nearly forgetting. The interaction suggests to Castiel that he should set up a punishment structure in case that becomes an issue in the future, and he files that away to muse over later. 

“A good dom puts his sub’s needs first,” Castiel tells him, answering a question that Dean doesn’t actually ask. The look Dean gives him in return is full of both wide-eyed wonder and open appreciation, and Castiel finds himself enjoying watching his friend discover what it’s like to be a sub, to be _Castiel’s_ sub. 

“I’m entirely pleased you let me feed you, Dean,” he says casually, moving the empty plate to the table and carding fingers through Dean’s messy hair. “Selfishly, I’d love to keep you like this all day. You look incredible, and I’d love to see you on your knees with your head on my thigh while we watch TV, or let you warm my cock for as long as you can stand it and then come down your throat.” Dean’s pupils visibly expand as Castiel talks, but he sits calmly with his hands folded in his lap, _so_ patient, _so_ perfect. Castiel clears his throat. “However, just this once, I think we should debrief. It pains me to ask you to remove your collar, but I think it’s for the best. I cannot put into words how much joy it brings me to see you in it, but for this conversation, we must be equals.” 

Obediently, Dean tips his head back, intending to allow Castiel access to the clasp. “No,” Castiel says gently, shaking his head. “You’re in control of removing your collar. That’s very important to me. I can ask for you to put it on or take it off, but to actually do so has to be your choice. Especially right now, considering what I’m asking. Do you understand?” 

Dean looks Castiel straight in the eyes and nods solemnly. “Yes, sir,” he replies, and Castiel’s heart clenches in his chest as Dean fumbles with the clip sitting over his Adam’s apple. For a moment, Castiel worries he won’t be able to undo it, but then it slips free and he slides the collar out from around his neck. The box is still sitting in the catch-all bowl in the entryway, so Dean returns the collar to it before taking a seat next to Castiel on the couch. 

“It’s weird,” Dean says almost immediately, pulling a leg up and wrapping his arm around it protectively, which Castiel finds immensely interesting. Dean’s never been ashamed of his body, so perhaps he’s feeling vulnerable. Castiel will have to keep an eye on that—their interactions are supposed to improve Dean’s self-esteem, not damage it. Oblivious to Cas’ internal musings, Dean keeps talking, which is a good thing. “Not like I haven’t sat on your couch a million times before. Shouldn’t feel any different, right?” 

With a shrug, Castiel takes another gulp of the remaining coffee before passing it over to Dean. It’s cold and could use a refill, but Castiel senses Dean needs something to do with his hands more than he needs a drink. “I think it’s fine to feel however you do right now. Our dynamic has changed, it makes sense that your feelings towards me and being in my space may have shifted as well. There’s nothing wrong with that, but we should talk about it. The last thing I want is for this to impact our friendship, Dean. Losing what we already had because of missteps around sex and submission, that would be...” Castiel trails off and shakes his head. “Unforgivable. Meaning, I would never forgive myself.” 

Predictably, Dean nods and then shoves his face into the mug, taking an exaggeratedly long sip while Castiel waits patiently. He swallows, licks his tempting pink lips, and then flexes his fingers across the mug. “Well, I hear you, but for whatever it’s worth, I had an awesome time and I wouldn’t take any of it back. Hell, you want my honest opinion on all this? Here it is.” Dean pauses and waits until Castiel meets his eyes before laying out his thoughts, no punches pulled. “It helped. Did exactly what you said it would, and I want more. I liked getting out of my own head. I liked not having control of what was going to happen. And I want… I want to do _all_ the stuff we matched on, on the kinks list.” He stretches out a hand, beckons with his fingers like, _come at me._ “Bring it on, baby.” 

“Really?” Castiel speaks without thinking, but Dean’s phrasing is both surprising and relieving. Of course, Castiel suspected that Dean enjoyed himself, he nearly passed out from the orgasm, but that was no guarantee he wouldn’t still up and decide being a submissive wasn’t for him. Or that being with _Castiel_ wasn’t for him. Despite what Dean’s said before about only being interested in exploring the scene with someone he trusts as much as Castiel, it’s no secret that the world is full of other Doms and Dommes. 

Truthfully, a not-small part of Castiel had wondered if Dean wouldn’t simply use him to get his feet wet, to take the edge off of the terror of giving up control for the first time, before moving on. It’s a weight off of his shoulders to hear from Dean that, at least for now, that isn’t the case. He turns his body to face Dean more fully and takes in his friend’s raised eyebrow before realizing how his own reply must have come off.

“I didn’t mean—” Castiel shakes his head and sighs, before giving Dean what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “I’m _very_ happy to hear that, because I also found our encounter to be extremely satisfying, and I was very hopeful you’d want to do it again, and continue our contract for as long as it remains that way.” Dean’s cheeks turn pink and he ducks his head, focusing on obtaining what has to be the absolute dregs of that coffee, but Castiel doesn’t call him on it. He just waits and when Dean lowers the cup, Castiel’s still staring, catching his gaze and smiling encouragingly. 

They look at each other dopily for nearly a full minute before Dean clears his throat, puts his cup down, and stands. It’s a lost cause, Castiel’s unable to even pretend he isn’t gawking at the way Dean’s muscles move when his body changes position, and Dean smirks openly when he notices. Wanting to regain the upper hand in the conversation, Castiel stands up and carries the empty dishes to the sink before refilling Dean’s mug from the carafe. “Are you off this weekend?” he asks.

“You know I am,” Dean replies easily, trailing behind Castiel and leaning forward on the breakfast bar using his elbows, chin in his hands. _Brat,_ Castiel thinks, suppressing the urge to spank him, collared or not. “We work the same rotation.” 

“I didn’t know if you picked up any OT,” Castiel retorts, holding the mug out. “I’m not your keeper.” Dean snorts and Castiel tips his head to the side, the corner of his mouth ticking up. “Poor choice of words?”

“Awesome choice of words,” Dean declares, accepting the refreshed coffee with a wink before downing half of it in one go. “Depending on what our next scene is.” 

A thrill shoots down Castiel’s spine at Dean’s words, and the images that whip tantalizingly through his mind to accompany them. “About that,” Castiel says carefully, not failing to notice the way Dean’s eyes follow his fingers as they walk their way across the countertop. Perhaps Dean’s not the only one with anxiety soothed by keeping their hands busy. “I have some… thoughts. I believe that we’re on the same page, but I, too, would like to up the intensity level of our scenes. I don’t want to do that if you have somewhere to be the next day. I work tonight and then I’m off Friday through Sunday, back in on Sunday night. That would mean I’d be available to you for that entire time period, as well. There wouldn’t be any pressure for you to leave my apartment, and I could care for you if necessary.” 

The reaction Castiel gets to all of that is unexpected, since Dean’s been so easygoing about everything thus far. On the other side of the counter, he fidgets, and a discontented noise makes its way out of his throat. It’s a bit unnerving, but Dean holds up a hand to stave off Castiel’s worry, which is definitely showing on his face. 

“Okay, two things,” Dean says suddenly, shoulders straightening. “One, that all sounds great. Whatever you want, buddy, I’m here for it. Seriously. But on the flip side, are we gonna…” Dean motions with his hands in between their bodies and Castiel cocks his head to the side, confused. Clearly exasperated, Dean sighs and shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “All this _talking_ , pal,” he blurts out. “You’re not gonna make me do this every time, are you? ‘Cause buddy, I gotta be honest, this part isn’t really my thing.” 

Narrowing his eyes, Castiel taps his lips with his fingers thoughtfully. It’s not as if he was intentionally trying to turn this into a roundtable discussion, just keep the flow of communication open between himself and his new sub. “Comprehensive debriefing is important in any dom/sub relationship, but especially one like ours, where you are very new at this and we have our underlying friendship to consider.” 

Dean scratches at the back of his neck and shrugs, letting both of his hands clap loudly against his bare thighs when they drop. “I know, Cas, I get that. I’m not saying I don’t want you to check-in, I do. I appreciate the due diligence, I can tell how seriously you take this stuff and, you know, it makes me feel safe, or whatever. But this—the not _having_ to talk—is part of what I signed on for, and maybe I wasn’t clear about that, earlier. I want to hand this stuff over to you, all of it. I want—fuck.” Dean turns away, drags a hand over his face and lets it linger on his chin, the other planted firmly on his hip. The set of his shoulders and the dip of his head conveys self-disgust, embarrassment, and Castiel feels terrible.

 _This is hard for him,_ Castiel realizes. It genuinely never occurred to him that it would be, that this could be asking too much of his emotionally-constipated friend. For Dean, this conversation is apparently much closer to “feelings” territory than Castiel ever would have placed it, and is also likely hitting his shame buttons, regarding _asking_ out loud for what he wants and needs. Dean can’t separate the discussion from the act, not yet. They can work on that, surely, but to jump in this way was a big miscalculation on Castiel’s part. Thankfully, it’s one that’s easily fixed.

“I understand, Dean,” he says quickly, reaching out to touch Dean’s shoulder and getting shrugged off for his efforts. Instead of being offended, Castiel softens his tone and tries to sound as reassuring, as nonjudgmental as possible. He’s not entirely convinced that some of Dean’s attitude right now isn’t a form of drop, but more importantly, it’s not inconsistent with _Dean_ in general, and the trouble he has vocalizing his desires and emotions. “I hear you,” he tries again. “These discussions, the planning, they’re all things you would prefer for me to handle and that’s _fine._ That’s perfectly fine, there’s nothing wrong with that at all. I didn’t—It didn’t occur to me that’s what you meant when we discussed debriefing originally.” 

The tension in the hard lines of Dean’s body begins to soften, and he glances over his shoulder like a petulant toddler who’s being offered candy but thinks he might have to take a nap in exchange. “Yeah?” he asks warily. “Just like that?”

“Our contract stipulates a check-in once per week. For many reasons, that’s not something I would feel comfortable eliminating completely, but I think a once-weekly chat is plenty for the time being. Anything else, we’ll play by ear. If there’s something I feel truly requires discussion, I’ll try to save it. Alternatively, if _you_ ever change your mind and need to talk, the offer is always on the table. Take off your collar and say so, I will always listen. Aside from that, I will take full control of our new relationship dynamic. I will tell you what to do and when, including how much recovery time will be needed. If your schedule can’t accommodate my plans, you’ll need to tell me so that I can adjust, but that is the extent of the input I’ll ask from you.” 

Having turned around again fully, Dean’s face is full of relief and Castiel only wishes he still had his collar on so that he could comfort him physically. It’s achingly difficult to be so close to a Dean that’s struggling and not be able to touch, but these boundaries are _important._

As Castiel watches, Dean shivers a little. The apartment is not cold, which is concerning. “Dean,” Castiel says carefully, not wanting to alarm him. “Would you like to go put your collar back on for the time being?” 

The effect is instantaneous—Dean lets out a haggard breath and nods, his eyes nearly going glassy before he turns away and Castiel can no longer see them. _Incredible,_ Castiel thinks as he watches Dean stride across the room. For a man who has never actually been a submissive before, his entire being positively _screams_ with the need for it. 

Not for the first time, Castiel thinks that he and Dean might be a lot more alike in that respect than he’d initially thought. His own need to take control is hard-wired into his personality, into who he _is._ When he can’t, when he doesn’t have a sub to care for, Castiel feels lost at sea, unfulfilled, like a boat with neither a mooring or a captain at its helm. Now, he can see that hunger, those desires of his own mirrored so perfectly in Dean’s deep-seated yearning to submit, to be cared for, to have his needs looked after and the burden of _choices_ and responsibility lifted completely off of him, at least for a time. 

Perhaps Castiel should have seen this coming, the way Dean reacted just now, but in his defense, it’s been a long time since he’s encountered another person who’s built from the ground up to _either_ command or serve. This not-quite-earth-shattering revelation makes him feel drawn to Dean even more strongly, like there’s something connecting them, two halves of one whole. A perfect pair with an extremely profound bond—they understand and compliment each other in ways other people couldn’t begin to understand. 

Of course, he can’t _say_ any of this to Dean, and not just because his emotional state is slightly fragile at the moment. It’s too much, too soon, and may very well always remain something Dean isn’t ready to hear. 

That’s fine. 

Castiel can do one better, anyway. He can fix this misstep with touch, since it’s very clearly what they both need right now. When Dean returns with his collar in place, Castiel takes him by the wrist and leads him to the couch, sinking down onto it and pulling Dean down on top of him without hesitation. Castiel lies back against the cushions with his legs stretched out and parted in a vee, making room for Dean’s body. He’s unsurprised but pleased at how easily Dean follows, letting Castiel shift and maneuver him until he’s draped across his chest, essentially lying on his stomach with his head tucked under Castiel’s chin. 

Once settled, Castiel flips the blanket he keeps folded on the back of the couch over both of them and cards his fingers through Dean’s hair, soothes his hands down his back. He resists the urge to verbally reassure Dean about anything they discussed earlier, thinking that might not be the best way to assuage his bristly embarrassment, considering. 

Dean calms. 

Not that he was overly worked up to begin with, at least not outwardly, but Castiel’s been around the block with submissives and he’s good at reading body language. The longer they lay together, the more relaxed Dean becomes. His heartbeat slows, his breathing evens out, and his muscles unclench under Castiel’s touch. It’s a beautiful response to an irritated submissive simply being held by their Dom, and Castiel feels both proud and grateful. Any shadow of a doubt that doing _this_ with Dean is rewarding enough to be worth the struggle with his emotions all but dissipates on the wind. 

Later, when Dean uncollars for good (for today, anyway), dresses in his own clothes and leaves Castiel warm and hopeful with a bright smile, a squeeze to his shoulder, and a “thanks, Cas,” those feelings haven’t faded in the least. Castiel stands with his back to the apartment door for a very long time, smiling at nothing and thinking about how damn lucky he is to have found a submissive like Dean hiding inside his very best friend.

***

It’s five minutes past six in the evening and Castiel has barely managed to punch his timesheet into the machine or drop his overnight bag in the bunk room when his phone starts dinging with messages. 

_Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding._

_Dean: Whatcha doin?_

_Dean: Cas_

_Dean: Cas_

_Dean: Cas_

_Dean: Caaaaaaaaaas_

Against his better judgment and _only_ because Dean can’t see him, Castiel smiles down at his phone screen. 

_Castiel: Bratty behavior will not be rewarded._

_Dean: Brat? Me? :-P_

_Dean: C’mon, Cas, I’m bored. Entertain me. I know you’re not on a call, I’m sitting right next to the scanner._

_Castiel: I am not on a call, but that doesn’t mean I am without work to do. Go and annoy Benny, I need to do a rig check. Zachariah has been playing this ridiculous game where he plants expired medications just to see if we’re actually looking at the dates._

_Dean: :( i’m bored_

_Dean: how quick do you think you’ll regret choosing chores over me_

_Dean: try not to think about my ass too much_

_Castiel: you’re not funny_

_Dean: I think I’m adorable!_

_Castiel: you’re distracting me, i have a very important job, as you know_

_Dean: i’m worth it, baby. C’mon, talk dirty to me_

_Dean: talk anything to me_

_Dean: send me a dick pic_

_Castiel: you know, it is true that we never talked about your lying to me yesterday. The way you ran and hid and spent an hour outside the ER, rather than risk you and I being alone together. If you’re this bored, we could certainly discuss that. At length, and in excruciating detail?_

_Dean: uh i think i hear our tones gtg_

It’s unnecessary to check the scanner to know that there are no tones and Dean is definitely not going on a call right now.

Closing his eyes, Castiel locks his phone and slips it back into his pocket before taking a slow, deep breath and letting it back out while he prays for strength. He has to remind himself several times that Dean is just being _Dean._ In fact, that entire virtual interaction was completely on par for their usual relationship; long before any discussion of sex and submission came into play. They aren’t in dom/sub mode right now and in truth, this is exactly how Dean _should_ be behaving. While it presses Castiel’s buttons, it shows that he’s adapting, that he’s not so affected or bothered by the shift in their relationship that it’s seeping into their usual back-and-forth. 

It’s a good thing, Castiel thinks. 

“Meditating, boss?” Startled, Castiel whirls around to find Charlie leaning casually against the doorway to the crew room. As he moves, his heavy boots squeak against the tile floor of the kitchen section of the common space, where he apparently forgot he was standing, in plain sight of anyone who wanders by. The whole room isn’t more than twenty feet by twenty feet; a functional space divided straight down the middle by the shift to carpet. On the side that doesn’t host a full working kitchen plus a table and chairs for eating, there’s a hodge-podge of mismatched couches and recliners, plus a coffee table and a TV on the wall. On the far side of the room stretches a countertop, cluttered with an assortment of chargers and holsters for various pagers and radios, and rows of “mailboxes” labeled with names and mounted to the wall. 

“Charlie,” Castiel says, clapping a hand to his chest. “You startled me.” 

His partner looks amused as she crosses the room to flop down onto one of the ratty couches, red hair spilling artfully over the arm and swaying gently in the air. “Sup, El Capitán? You seem…” She squints and raises her hands the way a director framing a shot might, thumbs touching and index fingers pointing up. She scours his demeanor with what can only be described as suspicion before shrugging and tucking her hands behind her head. “Something’s weird with you. You _and_ Dean, actually, now that I think about it. You know he was supposed to meet me for drinks last night? Never showed. And now you, Captain Anal Retentive, are zen-ing out in the kitchen instead of checking your truck. What gives?” 

Ignoring the lowkey insults since he knows that coming from the equally anal-retentive Charlie, they’re actually compliments, Castiel runs a hand through his hair and starts for the doorway. “You’re right, I should—”

“Don’t bother.” Charlie cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “I did it already. Came in early to finish a chart from last night and just jumped right in to work when I was finished. Also, Jody’s switching your expired drugs out, including your narcs, so you’ll just have to sign off on the new count when she’s done. I wouldn’t bother her, you know how she is with that stuff. All jokes aside, I think it _is_ like meditation for her, you know?” 

Nodding, Castiel shuffles back into the crew room and sinks down into one of the recliners, shifting to avoid the springs needling his ass and the stuffing that sticks out of the elderly chair’s arm. “So you’re really not going to tell me?” Charlie pouts obnoxiously and crosses her arms.

“I’m really not going to tell you,” Castiel replies evenly, fishing the remote out from under the cushion and absently flipping through channels until he finds something suitably mindless that will hopefully distract his partner and her endless curiosity. “And if you keep bothering me about it, I will assign you the entirety of the BLS chart QA to review for the rest of the month.” 

“Whoa, shots fired,” Charlie replies, flipping onto her side and tipping her head up to affix Castiel with what he’s sure she believes is a charming grin. “So, what I’m hearing is, it’s juicy.” 

“Charlie,” Castiel warns.

“But—”

Whatever Charlie’s going to say is miraculously interrupted by the house system going off above their heads. Claxons blare, tones drop over pagers, and a staticky voice comes across the building’s speakers as well as over every device attached to belts and slung around shoulders. The feedback from his and Charlie’s pagers catching on the house system makes Castiel cringe and miss the beginning of the dispatch, at least until they get fingers on the squelch buttons so they can listen properly to the overhead. 

_“...an MVA with entrapment, multiple victims, possible Class 5…”_

That’s all Castiel needs to hear before he’s up off of the couch like a shot, followed closely behind by Charlie as he charges into the ambulance bay, mind already working overtime. On a scene like this, Castiel has to manage so many things—responding units, prioritization of patients by severity, allocation of resources, the list goes on and the situation is, by nature, constantly evolving. Should he have a helicopter on standby? Should he try to resuscitate a pulseless, entrapped person when two other people need his attention? Are there enough medical providers to go around?

But none of those questions can be answered, not yet. Not until they get to the scene, or a cop gets there first and gives them a radio update.

As he and Charlie make their way across the bay, Jody pops out from the back of their truck and slams the doors behind her. “Drugs are good. Put your narcs back, didn’t have time to switch ‘em before the call came in. They’re expiring today so use ‘em up if you can! You wanna lead?” 

“Yes,” Castiel replies shortly, squeezing his Lieutenant’s arm in thanks as he moves past her. “Kaia?” 

“Already in the truck.” 

_Of course,_ Castiel realizes, internally facepalming. Both bay doors are open and Jody’s truck is running. As he hops into the passenger seat of his own ambulance, just as Charlie is starting it up, he sees Kaia in the driver’s seat in the other truck, ready to go as Jody slips in beside her. She flashes him a smile and a wave, and then they’re off, Kaia’s face disappearing out of Castiel’s peripheral vision as Charlie pulls their truck forward. 

On the way to the scene, Castiel communicates with dispatch and learns that there are two victims already out of the car, up and walking, and one who is unresponsive in the driver’s seat. While the police officer on scene doesn’t say so outright, Castiel suspects from reading in between the lines that the driver will not be a candidate for resuscitation. Based on that, he decides not to call a third ambulance to join them. 

It’s not even seven in the evening on a temperate spring day that had tempted a lot of people out and about, called to enjoy the sustained respite from the cold winter weather. It’s the same weather that had Dean forgoing his long-sleeve tee at work the other night, and vaguely, Castiel wonders if Dean made a better choice this evening. Castiel himself is wearing a sweatshirt with the City EMS logo on the breast, monochromatic navy from head-to-toe, and the same color in a t-shirt underneath. In a few hours, even that may not be warm enough. 

The thing about spring days and the increased activity outdoors is that they inevitably bring trauma with them. People—lay people—always think of rain and snow and sleet as the worst harbingers of motor vehicle accidents but no, it’s the sun. The sun brings everyone out, crowds the roads, makes people feel safe and act reckless. The first nice days after a long, cold spell nearly _always_ spell disaster for EMS. Motorcycles ripping carelessly down the road for the first time since the fall, elderly couples out for a Sunday drive, teenagers who gained their brand-new licenses over the winter and have been begging mom to let them borrow the car for _months,_ cruising with windows down and music up, laughing with friends, not paying attention. 

As they pull up to the scene and Castiel registers the wreckage, he can almost _feel_ the crash happening, replaying automatically in his mind’s eye. It’s not difficult to put the pieces together, not with how many vehicle accidents he’s seen in his career, and honestly, Castiel isn’t sure that’s a good thing. It certainly doesn’t help him to sleep at night, when everything is said and done and the accident he wasn’t even in repeats over and over behind his eyelids. 

The car sitting smashed and totaled, leaking fluids like a sieve into the middle of the road, would have been turning left. From the angle it’s pointed now, it had to have been coming out from a side street— _there,_ Castiel finds it—onto the main road. This intersection (if you can call it that) is notorious—people have been lobbying for a stoplight here for years. It’s at the bottom of a steep hill, one that has nowhere convenient for the cops to sit at the side of and monitor speed, and as such, people come flying down it going up to twice the legal limit. Inside his head, Castiel imagines the car pulling out, looking left and then right, waiting for a fast-moving vehicle to finish blowing down the hill and then forgetting to check their left again before pulling out into traffic. 

The impact of the Ford F-150 that hit them would have been head-on, directly into the totaled car’s driver side door. Whoever was driving the truck would have had no time to react, no chance to brake or swerve. His mind supplies the sensory details as Castiel’s eyes fall closed: the sickening crunch of metal-on-metal, the screeching of rubber tires against cement, the _pop_ of airbags deploying violently. Clouds of powder would have exploded over the interior, coating the upholstery of the car as well as the mouths and nostrils of the people in it. The sharp scent of gasoline and the burning smell of the destroyed engine would have mixed with the copper tang of blood in the air as it pooled with saliva and god knows what other bodily fluids. 

The car would have spun, the people inside would have been jerked and jolted from side to side, thrown about like ragdolls even _with_ their seatbelts on. Castiel’s fingers tighten on his own thighs, envisioning almost against his will the force of the impact, the sound of glass shattering, the feel of it raining down over his face. The smell, he doesn’t have to imagine at all; it’s still lingering in the air. Stale and burning, a unique combination of oil and gas, smoke and fear. Most vehicle accidents smell exactly the same, just like this, and that produces a strange sense of deja vu every time Castiel arrives at one. 

Charlie eases on the truck’s brakes just shy of the edge of the scene, not wanting to get in the middle of what will be accident reconstruction by the state police, should it actually produce a fatality. 

_Produce a fatality._ What an odd, detached way to refer to the violent snuffing out of someone’s life. It’s so cold, so callous, and yet, that’s exactly what Castiel has to be right now, so it’s apt. He has a job to do. 

“Dispatch, Medic Three and Medic Four are on location.” 

Fire is already here as well, an engine and a heavy rescue from two different stations parked to create a barrier between the accident scene and approaching traffic, shielding both the first responders and the victims. From memory, Castiel knows there are two firehouses close by on opposite ways down the road, and one of them is Dean’s. Despite that, Castiel isn’t looking for him, not right now. 

Both fire units beat EMS by several minutes and consequently, there are several bunker-gear-clad firefighters distractedly milling around. Two are peering into the car and yelling for something Castiel can’t quite discern over the ambient noise of the trucks idling and traffic being redirected, and two are crouched by the curb on the other side of the street, hats and gear blocking Castiel’s view of what must be the ambulatory victims. 

There’s a familiar face walking brusquely Castiel’s way as he approaches, a normally friendly and wide smile topped with a sunny attitude and blonde hair that he welcomes immensely on a scene like this. “Donna,” he greets the police officer warmly, but Donna’s face remains taut and grim. Of all the ominous signs this scene boasts, that might be the most sobering. 

“Captain,” she replies formally, and Castiel’s stomach knots up in his abdomen. “Car full of teenagers, older brother taking his girlfriend and his sister on a ride to the mall.” She points over to where the two firefighters are crouched and jerks her chin. “Driver of the truck is fine, doesn’t want EMS to touch him. I have the girlfriend and the sister sitting down, they were both wandering around when I pulled up. Both are pretty shaken and busted up, maybe confused, hard to tell. Figured I’d leave that up to yous guys to decide.”

“And the brother?” Castiel asks, already dreading the answer, but still not entirely prepared for Donna to shake her head and pull her hat off, putting it over her heart. “I’m no medical professional,” she starts, “but even I know you don’t survive your head exploding all over the window like that.” 

“Right,” Castiel acknowledges, the breeze feeling that much cooler as it whips across his face. “Thank you, Donna.” He turns to his team, gathered a respectful step or two behind him but nearly bouncing on the balls of their feet to jump into action. “Jody, see to the girls. Both of them need to be transported, regardless of injuries. It’ll be much better for their parents to get the news about the boy in the safety of the ER where there are resources to support them. Charlie, Kaia, grab collars and boards and use Fire to help get both patients loaded. None of you need to be near the car, and I expect you’ll keep the girls away, too. It sounds like they probably haven’t realized what’s happened yet. I’ll pronounce and call for the coroner.” 

There’s relief on everyone’s faces as they split off from their little huddle, hurrying to carry out Castiel’s requests. Donna pats him on the arm, her face contrite and apologetic as he steps towards the car. In his peripheral vision, the gold-plated “15” on the side of the engine glints dramatically in the dying evening light, making Castiel squint. _Dean is here somewhere,_ he remembers absently, now wishing more than anything that he was here, by Castiel’s side. But that’s a luxury and a comfort Castiel just isn’t getting today.

This is the worst part of the job, without question. This is the thing most of the EMTs and medics he knows have nightmares about. Before it happens because of the fear of it, the anticipation, and then afterward for _years_ , because of the scars it carves into your psyche. This scene represents the ultimate failure for a first responder—the victim they were too late to save, the person who’s beyond their ability to help, even before they arrive on scene. It’s never _easy_ , no matter the victim’s age, gender, or the way in which they died. Some are easier than others, of course. The ninety-year-old grandmother who dies peacefully in her sleep—Castiel doesn’t know too many medics waking up in cold sweats over calls like that.

But this… Donna had slipped him the boy’s license as he walked away, how she got it, Castiel’s not going to think too closely about. The boy’s picture shows a floppy-haired teenager with a dorky smile and acne, the birth date printed to its right letting Castiel know that he just turned eighteen a month ago. _Eighteen._

These firefighters are on the ball. As Castiel nears the car, he recognizes his niece, Claire, standing alongside Station Eleven’s Captain Harvelle. Ellen gives him a solemn nod and tips her head towards Claire, who’s holding a folded tarp and looking as serious as Castiel’s ever seen her. They can’t tarp the car until they have his go-ahead. Even though it’s obvious, even though everyone already knows, no one on this scene can decide that it’s officially over for this boy, except for Castiel. That reality weighs heavily on his shoulders and he tries equally hard not to show it.

The actual physical assessment takes less than thirty seconds total, even counting the time it takes for Castiel to climb into the passenger’s seat and lean over the boy’s skinny body. Castiel puts fingers on the boy’s neck, because he has to. He puts his stethoscope on his chest, because he has to. Neither are necessary. If anything, Donna was downplaying the severity of the head trauma in her succinct description, and it’s one of the hardest things Castiel’s ever had to look at, which is saying something. 

_Eighteen years, gone in the blink of an eye._

As he exits the still-smoking car, the whole scene seems to slow down and blur, voices going muffled and fading into the back of Castiel’s mind as he forces himself to go through the motions. Together, with Claire and Ellen, they pull the bright blue tarp up and over the car, so that bystanders can’t see. Blue plastic waves in the wind and has to be weighed down by bags of sand to stay in place. Castiel turns away. The two survivors are already on backboards secured to stretchers being loaded into each of the ambulances, and he follows, numb. 

Castiel calls for the coroner. He speaks to Donna. He climbs into the ambulance and takes report on the shaken-up but mostly uninjured little sister from Charlie. They drive to the hospital in a hazy fog of red lights bouncing off of the deepening darkness outside the windows, sirens echoing off towering buildings as they fly through the city unhindered. 

He starts an IV. He asks the fourteen-year-old girl questions about her pain level, about what she remembers happening. He checks her vital signs, covers a shallow laceration on her arm, gives her an icepack for the blossoming bruise on the side of her face. When she questions him about her brother, Castiel doesn’t lie, but he doesn’t tell her the truth, either. “We should wait for your parents,” he suggests. “At the hospital, they’ll be there.” 

Someone called them. Donna, probably, Castiel thinks he remembers her saying as much.

He’s off the hook, anyway. The girl doesn’t push for a better answer. Either she already knows and wants to stay in denial for a little while longer, or more likely, she hit her head and isn’t completely capable of putting two plus two together right this second. 

Castiel calls report to the hospital and when they arrive, both his patient and Jody’s are taken directly to the double trauma bay. _Injury potential,_ is the reasoning. _Death, same vehicle._ He and Jody orate their reports clearly and competently to a crowded trauma room full of gowned and gloved professionals before leaving both girls in good hands. The Chaplain is already there, ready to help deliver the bad news alongside the doctors and nurses. It’s cowardly, but Castiel’s relieved it won’t be up to him this time. 

As he strips off his gloves and washes his hands, Charlie tells him to “go get some air” while she restocks. She knows him, knows how much he takes these types of things to heart, and considering the situation, she’s also likely extremely grateful he didn’t make her look in the car. Castiel thanks her mechanically and turns away, automatically flicking his badge at the sensor lock to key open the ER doors. 

Outside in the ambulance bay, there’s a fire engine idling, the gold “15” on the side looking colder now that the sun has fully disappeared. Jody must have taken one of their firefighters with her to help in the back, they’re likely here to pick whoever it was up. 

The wind is outright brisk now, and Castiel can’t help reflecting back on his earlier ponderings regarding the likelihood that his sweatshirt wouldn’t be warm enough tonight. He was right. He’s dazed, so much so that he doesn’t realize he’s been standing in the middle of the parking lot staring blankly at the engine until the side door opens and someone gets out. 

Dean, clad once again only in his bunker pants and a fucking t-shirt, hits the ground and strides towards him with a worried look on his face. Despite everything, Castiel can’t help but smile at Dean’s stubborn stupidity, his ridiculous predictability and his lack of simple common sense. It’s inane, and Castiel loves him for it. “You look cold,” he comments smugly, but Dean isn’t fooled, reaching out to grab Castiel by the bicep and yank him into his chest, hugging him fiercely and clapping him on the back, twice. 

Tears burst violently into the corners of Castiel’s eyes and he chokes and gasps a little trying to force them back. “I know,” Dean says gruffly, rocking them both from side to side as Castiel clings.

“I really need you,” Castiel mutters, soft and rough, and Dean gets it immediately, pulling back and holding him at arm’s length, but in a reassuring, possessive sort of way. 

“You’ve got me,” he replies, looking Castiel straight in the eyes. “I promise. Tomorrow night, soon as we get off shift, I’ll be there.” Dean squeezes his shoulder while Castiel works to get his emotions in check and his face back in order, searching for the right thing to say. Dean is a miracle, and Castiel already owes him so much. What would he have done if they hadn’t gone down this road? That’s not even something he’s capable of contemplating right now, so he shoves it away.

“Thank you,” he settles on, his voice once again coming out used and gritty. He swipes at his eyes and nods. “Tomorrow, then.” 

The engine rumbles behind them, like someone stepped on the gas without first releasing the brake. Clearly, the crew inside isn’t trying to be obnoxious or insensitive, but someone wants to get a move on. “Text me,” Dean says, pointing a finger in Castiel’s direction as he backs away and heads for the truck. With a nod and a wave, Castiel agrees, and lets him go. 

When he returns to his own truck, parked carefully between the white lines next to Jody and Kaia’s, the inside is nearly back to its formerly pristine state. “Thank you, Charlie,” Castiel says quietly, thumbing through the paperwork Charlie’s retrieved from registration that includes the patient’s demographics. 

“Dude, I should be thanking you,” Charlie quips, zipping up the first-in bag and plopping it back on top of the stretcher for next time. “If you need—”

“I don’t,” Castiel cuts her off and then offers what he hopes is an appreciative look when she glares disapprovingly. “I’m fine,” he assures her. 

“Oookay, if you say so,” Charlie concedes with a shrug as she hops down out of the back and makes her way to the driver’s seat.

Before Castiel follows, he takes a second to poke his head into the back of Jody’s rig to find Kaia doing the same cleaning routine as Charlie. “Hey,” he says. “You should text Claire. I don’t know how much she may have seen, but she looked…” Castiel trails off and presses his lips together. Kaia will understand, she’s been going out with his niece for over a year now and knows the interminably stubborn Claire better than probably anyone. In some ways, the two of them remind Castiel a lot of him and Dean; complementary pieces that shouldn’t fit together but somehow do. 

Except, of course, for the fact that Claire loves Kaia back and shows it openly. 

“Thanks for the heads up,” Kaia replies sincerely, stopping what she’s doing to lean an elbow against the cabinets and eye Castiel with concern. “And you? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m _fine,_ ” Castiel grumbles, ducking back out of the box and heading for his own truck. “Besides having to reassure everyone else that’s the case.”

“That’s what Claire always says when she’s not fine,” Kaia yells after him.

“It’s what _everyone_ says when they’re not fine, Kaia,” Castiel shoots back, noncommittal and evasive as ever. He slides into the cab of the ambulance and motions for Charlie to get going before Kaia can so much as reply, or before Jody can show up and pile on him, too. That’s the last thing he needs right now. He _is_ fine, or at least, he will be. 

Tomorrow night. 

***

Twenty-four hours, off and on, stuck in various enclosed spaces with three smart, intuitive women who are determined to make Castiel talk about his feelings quickly has him itching and anxious in an entirely different way. By the time six p.m. rolls around the following evening and Castiel’s shift ends, he’s feeling somewhat less distraught about what he saw at the accident scene, but a _lot_ more interested in getting the hell away from his well-intentioned co-workers. He gets it, they’re grateful he took one for the team, they want to support him, but none of them are any good at accepting that a roundtable discussion is simply _not_ how Castiel copes. 

No matter what the experts claim, simply _talking_ things out is not an effective way for every person to deal with stress. Rehashing trauma in that way has always made things worse for Castiel, reminding him vividly of all the ways things were and are out of his control, placing the value of words above actions in all things. It’s not something that’s ever made sense to him, it’s not a coping method he can relate to. 

Working things out in a scene where he controls both the action and the outcome, now that’s useful. However twisted someone else may think it is, it’s important for Castiel to be able to _see_ and _feel_ his wins, and that’s where being a Dom comes in. Talk can be valuable, of course, and there is a time and place for it. But when it comes to processing and coping with trauma, talk doesn’t work for Castiel, and insofar as he can tell, it doesn’t work for Dean, either. 

No one else needs to understand; they have each other for that.

As Castiel’s loading up his car to head home, he gets a text from Dean that he’s headed straight to his place, too. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars (or in this case, shower and change). Logistically, Castiel knows he should probably tell him to go home and do all that, but put plainly, he just doesn’t want to. Since the hospital parking lot the night before, he hasn’t seen Dean at all and both of their shifts were busy, leaving little time for texting. The result is an anxious Castiel who is quite desperate to get on with their plans and in general, to have Dean in his arms. 

_Besides_ , he reasons to himself, it’s well-within the sphere of their relationship for Castiel to order Dean (once he’s collared) to get cleaned up or to prep himself in whatever way he deems necessary. In fact, the idea of Dean _doing so_ in Castiel’s own bathroom is an enticing thought, one easily tacked onto the scene he has in mind. Excited all over again (perhaps even more so, now), Castiel bids his co-workers goodbye, completely ignoring Charlie’s suspicious questions about where his sudden smile came from.

“Are you seeing Meg again or something?!” she calls after him hopefully, her voice carrying loudly across the parking lot. But Castiel just slides silently into his car, waves a hand out the window at her, and pulls away. She doesn’t need any clues about how close she actually is to the truth—knowing Charlie, it’s only a matter of time until she figures it out. He wonders if Dean realizes that, and how he’ll react when she does, because it’s almost certainly a “when,” not an “if.” 

The drive home feels endless, though in actuality it takes less than fifteen minutes. When Castiel turns to maneuver his car into the parking lot beneath his apartment complex, he notes Dean’s Chevy already parked in the visitor’s lot outside, which makes his extremities tingle in anticipation. Overnight bag slung over his shoulder, Castiel takes the elevator up to his floor, beginning to slip into Dom mode even before it dings his arrival and the doors slide open. 

He’s still unprepared. 

Castiel’s breath catches in his chest because Dean—Dean looks even better than usual. Perhaps it’s all the anticipation and the build-up, all of the stress and emotions piled high on top of something Castiel _already_ wanted and needed very badly over the last twenty-four hours, but he’s fairly certain he’s never seen a sight more welcoming. 

Dean is still in his t-shirt, of course, paired with his blue uniform pants and heavy black boots, essentially the same thing Castiel is wearing. Except, Dean looks like he’s modeling for a catalogue, not coming off of a long work shift, and Castiel probably looks like he just rolled out of bed (he did, he took a nap and likely has the pillow lines on his cheek to prove it). 

The way Dean leans so casually against Castiel’s door frame, arms folded across his chest as he absently scrolls his phone, is artful perfection. His toned biceps push against the fabric of his t-shirt and the hem rides up a little near his hip, exposing skin that Castiel has to physically restrain himself from dropping to his knees to lick. _Was he always this thirsty over Dean?_ Castiel finds himself wondering, and the answer is a resounding no. Of course, he’s been interested, he’s found Dean impossibly attractive, but it appears that getting a taste of what actually having Dean is like has sent him tumbling over the edge of a cliff he didn’t know he was standing in front of. 

Cracking his neck, Castiel ensures that he appears outwardly composed before approaching Dean and sliding his key into the lock without a word. They both know what Dean is here for, and it’s best that he gives Dean access to his collar as quickly as possible. 

_Boundaries,_ he emphasizes to himself, for the hundredth or so time since their discussion the morning prior. Excessive, perhaps, but important to Castiel all the same. 

As the door shuts behind them, he finds out swiftly that he has no reason to worry. The lock has barely clicked into place before Dean is extricating the thin strip of leather from its box, threading it around his neck as Castiel puts his bag down on the floor. Doing his best to appear nonchalant and not as if he thinks he might explode waiting for Dean to give him the green light, Castiel stands quietly with his fingers laced together behind his back. Once again Dean doesn’t disappoint, heading directly for the playroom after flashing Castiel a cheeky wink that he lets slide, just this once, because he really is thrilled with Dean and the complete lack of prompting needed. 

Castiel has a feeling that he may need to remind himself in the moment that Dean is not an experienced sub, because his demeanor, his attitude, the easy way he slips into the role and accepts everything Castiel asks of him, could fool even the most experienced Dom. He supposes they’ll find out if that carries over to some more intense scenes, and the hairs on his arm stand up wildly at just the mere suggestion. 

Remembering himself and his plan, Castiel clears his throat. Dean stops dead in his tracks, the swiftness of his response and the incredibly clear desire to please nearly causing Castiel to abandon his impending request. And he would have, except that he needs a few minutes to prepare as well, so in the end, he follows through.

“Instead of heading to the playroom, you’re going to strip in the bathroom today. Leave your clothes in the hamper, then shower, clean up, and prepare yourself for me. There are enema kits under the sink and lube in the top drawer of the vanity. In fact, stay there, please.” Castiel’s tone is clipped and efficient and for the first time tonight, he sees Dean falter a little, which is amusing. It’s good that he’s surprised and caught off guard, things like this _should_ be somewhat unpredictable for Dean, that’s what Dean wants. 

As Castiel moves past his sub, he drops a hand to Dean’s lower back, allowing for a gentle caress, something grounding between them. Opening the door to the playroom, he heads for the first armoire and pulls the top drawer open, removing a still-packaged item from inside and handing it over to his sub. For his part, Dean is still standing in the doorway, obedient as ever. Castiel doesn’t miss the flush that colors Dean’s cheeks when he takes the brand-new plug, but to his credit, he simply straightens up and flashes a wide, cocky smile.

“Yes, sir,” he says confidently. “Anything else, sir?” 

“No,” Castiel replies, with a roll of his eyes and a swat of his hand to Dean’s ass as he passes. “Don’t be a brat.” 

The door to the bathroom closes behind Dean and Castiel waits until the shower turns on, just on the off-chance that Dean needs something. Satisfied that he’ll have a few minutes alone, he moves about the playroom setting the scene. Even though Dean doesn’t want to discuss or debrief, Castiel’s already decided that he’s not willing to compromise on being the kind of Dom who doesn’t “surprise” his sub with something (or a combination of things) they may not be interested in. Kink worksheets are all well and good, but for the most part, subs should have a general idea of what’s coming in any given scene, otherwise, there’s no ability to ensure ongoing consent. 

As such, when Dean finally exits the bathroom all naked, damp, and fresh, his skin pink and his hair wet but re-styled, Castiel’s waiting with a plan. He has Led Zeppelin on again, knowing that it will put Dean at ease, although it’s at a much lower volume than last time, truly background music. Already stripped to his boxers, Castiel meets Dean halfway across the room and cups his cheek, considering dragging him in for a kiss but deciding at the last second that it would be too intimate under these circumstances. Instead, he reaches around and feels for the base of the plug, humming approvingly when his fingers find it. “Lovely,” he says. “Thank you, Dean.” 

“You’re welcome, Sir,” Dean replies immediately, and Castiel preens. 

“Truly, such a good boy,” he murmurs, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder and pushing down lightly. “Kneel.” 

Once Dean is on the ground, Castiel steps away, over to the bed where numerous supplies are laid out. “Tonight, I want you to learn to trust me with your pleasure. You know, of course, that I am in control of your body, but unless you earn a punishment or we agree on denial in advance, I also want you to trust that I will always take care of you in the end. Do you believe me, Dean?”

Raising his eyes from where they’ve been trained on the floor, Dean nods. “Yes, Sir.” 

“That’s good,” Castiel says almost conversationally, as he picks up a slim vibrator, fresh out of its package, from where it’s been sitting on the bed. Once he’s sure Dean’s eyes are tracking, he runs a loose fist over it, intentionally teasing. “Because you won’t come tonight until you’re begging for it, until you’ve nearly given up on release. Your whole body will be screaming for it, but only I get to decide when you’ve earned it. I’m going to tie you to this bed, blindfold you, tease you relentlessly, and fuck your mouth the way you wish I’d fuck your hole. Does that sound amenable?” 

Biting back a smirk, Castiel tips his head to the side and watches as Dean’s mouth falls open just slightly, his tongue darting out to wet his lips before he sucks in a breath. “Y-yes, Sir,” he replies, fumbling over the words, which is very much the reaction Castiel was hoping for. To his delight, Dean stays kneeling with his hands behind his back, unflinching and awaiting his next instructions. Castiel’s blood warms in his veins to see it, thinking about all the ways he can’t wait to positively _ruin_ this man. 

“Safeword, Dean?”

“Impala.”

“And are you using it?” 

“No, sir.”

Interesting. A much less cavalier response than last time; Dean is appropriately nervous and Castiel is extremely pleased. “Stand, lay face-up on the bed with your head just over the side I’m standing on, yes, just like that. Good boy.” Castiel praises Dean as he clamors to obey, appreciating the curve of his ass and the flex of the muscles in his back as he climbs onto the elevated mattress and lays himself down. 

Part of this scene involves keeping Dean on his toes by making him hold his head up. He _can_ let it fall back, of course, and it won’t even be particularly painful of a punishment if he does, but it won’t be completely comfortable either. With nothing underneath to support it, Dean will be constantly pulled to thinking about his head, to the blood rushing to it, to deciding whether to hold it up or let it drop. It’s an additional mess of sensations he’ll have to war with, in addition to the rest of the onslaught Castiel is planning. 

Once Dean is in position, Castiel pulls up a cuff attached to the post at the bottom of the bed and a cuff from the one at the top, securing the first to Dean’s left wrist and the latter to his right. Once done, he adjusts the lengths so that Dean’s arms are pulled straight out to their sides. They stretch parallel along the edge of the bed, only an inch or so of mattress above them before empty space. 

“Comfortable?” Castiel murmurs, as he slips a finger beneath the bindings and assesses Dean’s fingers to ensure that they’re secure but not so tight they impede function or circulation. 

“I guess,” Dean huffs, clearly just being difficult and not actually unsure, but Castiel grabs him by the hair anyway.

“You _guess?_ ” he growls. “Color, Dean.”

“Green, Sir,” Dean says quickly, as Castiel raises his eyebrows and gives him a warning look. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Better,” Castiel allows, before returning to his work. 

It’s entertaining to watch Dean wiggle in place, testing his restraints and simultaneously trying to figure out what to do with his head, although Castiel tries his best not to show exactly how amused he is. Instead, he grabs the silk blindfold he laid out and folds it slowly, intentionally, drawing out the moment and ignoring the way Dean starts to show the beginnings of impatience below him. 

When the fabric is secured around Dean’s eyes (and tested), Castiel moves over to the other side of the bed. There, he shoves a pillow beneath Dean’s ass to elevate it slightly for easier access before securing both of Dean’s ankles in a similar fashion to his wrists. Satisfied, he steps back and surveys his kingdom, a thoughtful hand on his chin. 

Just seeing Dean tied up and helpless, willingly putting himself at Castiel’s mercy, _does_ things to him. The feeling is not unexpected by far, and it isn’t wholly unfamiliar, but it’s also not the _same_ as his Dom experiences in the past, either. Sometimes with Meg, Castiel would go through an entire scene without so much as getting hard. Sometimes he would get her off and completely forget about himself, because it was the _control_ he was there for first and the sex was just a bonus, a side-effect—and an unnecessary one, at that. 

This, though. This is something else. Dean’s body is _interesting_ to Castiel in ways no one else has ever been. It produces sensations in his own being, awakens feelings and instincts he was never entirely sure he possessed. Just seeing Dean naked, just _knowing_ that Castiel is allowed to have him, to take him, _any_ way he desires, not only has him hard in his boxers, but has the blood flowing away from his brain, making him hazy on why they’re bothering with all this other stuff when they could just be _fucking._

Thankfully, he comes back to himself before he does something stupid—after all, that “other stuff” is what Dean is here for, and Castiel _needs_ to stay on track. This is where his own D/S experience is paramount, allowing him to pivot back to the task at hand as well as helping to keep him focused. Castiel can do this, he can definitely do this, he was _made_ for it. 

Climbing up onto the bed, Castiel straddles one of Dean’s thighs and runs a single finger down the middle of his chest. Laid out below him, Dean shivers a little and pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth. “Color, Dean?” Castiel asks.

“Green, Sir,” Dean replies breathlessly, biceps flexing as he pulls on his restraints.

“Hmm,” is all that Castiel replies, before picking up the feather duster he previously laid on the bed and tickling it over Dean’s bare skin. It has the intended effect—at first, it makes Dean laugh, loosens him up a little, but after a minute or two, it has him squirming and sighing, murmuring about being ticklish. Down on Dean’s thigh, his half-hard cock, shy from nerves, begins to plump up fully with the distraction. Castiel doesn’t even need to touch it to get him all the way there, just flicks the duster around Dean’s various sensitive areas and grins at his own cleverness. 

“I enjoy seeing you like this,” he tells Dean, who exhales pointedly. “So docile and compliant. So open and beautiful. Your body,” he continues, leaning down to press a kiss to Dean’s sternum, to let his open mouth drag down over Dean’s abdomen, leaving a wet trail from his tongue and lips in its wake. “It’s stunning,” he tells Dean’s belly button. “You are an incredible creature, so deserving of my affection, my attention.”

Unsurprisingly, Dean grunts beneath him and Castiel suspects his face is fire engine-red, his lip probably bleeding from biting it hard enough to avoid talking back. Amazingly, he manages to keep his mouth shut and Castiel rewards him, knowing full-well how hard that must have been for Dean. “Good boy,” he says, before opening his mouth and taking Dean’s erection in almost to the root, swallowing firmly around him twice. 

The muscles in Dean’s thighs go taut and he groans, not expecting the stimulation and not at all ready for it. Castiel pulls off with a wet pop and says, “Don’t you dare come.” He sits back on his heels and watches with satisfaction as Dean pants but gets himself under control impressively quickly. Running a hand up Dean’s thigh, Castiel decides that he’s ready to move forward. 

“Don’t forget,” he reminds Dean. “You may only come when I say so, but you may beg all you like. In fact, you must, if you want to obtain my permission.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Dean acknowledges, his words breathy and wonderfully needy already.

After obtaining the lube and the vibrator once more, Castiel gets his fingers around the base of the plug and toys with it a little, working it against Dean’s rim. In and out, occasionally leaning forward to swirl his tongue over the crown of Dean’s cock, just to be a tease. Dean responds beautifully, sighing and moaning just a little, tugging at his restraints and wiggling his ass as best that he can. There’s no reason to admonish him to stay still, Castiel’s quite enjoying how affected Dean is and besides, there’s quite literally nowhere for him to go.

The plug slips out and Castiel puts it aside, slicking up his own fingers and prodding Dean’s hole himself before turning to the vibrator. He slips two digits inside easily, sweeping them around until he locates Dean’s prostate, making the man arch right up off the bed with a long press of his fingers against it. “That was impressive, for being tied up,” he teases and Dean moans, doing his best to rock down onto Castiel’s fingers but getting absolutely nowhere. “Now, now,” Castiel scolds. “Patience. Or at least tell me what you want.”

“Want _you_ , Cas,” Dean moans throatily, and if Castiel wasn’t hard before, _fuck_. His dick blurts precum onto his thigh and Castiel blinks down at it in surprise, his hand automatically moving to provide some relieving pressure, unfamiliar with having such a strong reaction in a sexual situation. 

“Sir,” he corrects Dean, but his reaction is delayed and he’s almost remiss to do it for the way _Cas_ sounds coming out of Dean’s sinful mouth. Despite his hesitation, he does lift Dean’s leg to slap him on the ass in what he hopes is sufficient reproach. Dean is… so much more distracting than Castiel anticipated. 

“ _Sir,"_ Dean moans, not missing a beat. “Sir, please, I need your fingers. Please touch me again, ple—” His rambling is cut off by another moan as Castiel obliges, since he asked so nicely, pushing two fingers inside again and giving Dean the pressure he’s asking for. 

“You like that, hmm? That’s excellent news, because I have so much more to give you.” Without waiting for a reply, Castiel swaps his fingers for the lubed-up vibrator, turning it on and angling it so that it rests directly against Dean’s prostate. At this point, Dean’s cock is rock-hard and looking a little purple, practically begging for someone to touch it as Dean rocks his hips and squirms. 

Pleased, Castiel hops down off of the bed and watches for a moment, just enjoying Dean’s writhing and the sounds that escape from his mouth. He readjusts the vibrator when it slips and eventually, rounds the bed to where Dean’s head is having the roughest time of all. 

It’s clear from the tension in Dean’s shoulders that holding it up is becoming a strain and he lets it drop frequently, which makes Castiel’s timing perfect. Anticipation thrumming, he shucks his boxers and stands to Dean’s left, at exactly the right height thanks to the elevated nature of the bed, one of the best design decisions he made regarding this room. Reaching out to slide a hand beneath Dean’s head, the overstimulated sub sighs in relief and relaxes into Castiel’s grasp, but Castiel clicks his teeth in reproach. “Oh no, you don’t,” he says, carefully tipping Dean’s head to the side and using his free hand to grasp his own cock, rubbing the tip across Dean’s parted lips. 

The sight is obscene. It looks almost nonconsensual, with Dean stretched out and tied down, the blindfold covering his eyes, the way he’s sweating and tensing from the vibrator in his ass. He’s gorgeous, truly a work of art, and Castiel is over the moon about it all. Not just the aesthetics, but the way it makes him _feel,_ so hot and aroused that he has to work to keep himself in check, in control. It’s so beyond what he’s used to, what he _expected,_ even, but in a truly spectacular way that he wouldn’t change a bit.

Another dribble of precum leaks from his cock and this time, Dean’s tongue is darting out to taste, his mouth opening and neck straining to take Castiel in, and who is he to deny such a perfect, desperate request?

As Dean’s lips close around him, Castiel lets out a hum of satisfaction, allowing himself a long moment where he closes his eyes and just holds Dean’s head, relishing the hot, wet heat enveloping him. With his hand on Dean’s jaw, he can feel the muscles relax, feel the saliva drooling from Dean’s mouth as Castiel pushes all the way in, past Dean’s hard palate and into his throat. To his credit, Dean, shaking and clutching at the bedsheets, just takes it, breathing through his nose and letting Castiel take what he wants. 

It’s an incredible rush of power and emotion, and when Castiel pulls out and Dean gasps, he crouches down immediately, fisting both hands into Dean’s hair and kissing him thorough and deep, even as he’s still catching his breath. “Perfect,” he mutters into Dean’s mouth. “You’re perfect.” 

“Please,” Dean rasps, as Castiel kisses the corner of his mouth, his jaw, as he nips along his neck and reaches down between his legs to adjust the vibrator. His body jerks beneath Castiel when he does, and he cries out. “Fuck, Sir, _please, please,_ ” he begs. 

“Soon,” Castiel replies, pressing his thumb into the soft flesh of Dean’s chin and encouraging his mouth open again. He complies, of course, with tears in his eyes and a sob in his throat, and Castiel slides into his mouth, slightly more gentle this time. He doesn’t fuck Dean’s face like he promised or try to deepthroat him again, just rocks there for a few minutes, alternately reaching down to fix the vibrator and murmuring encouragement for Dean to swallow or use his tongue, which he does on command. 

When he pulls out again, Dean’s had enough and Castiel can _see_ it this time, recognizes all the signs that this scene is nearing the point where it will tip for Dean. That’s perfect, because he’s ready, too. Supporting Dean’s neck, Castiel pulls off the blindfold before hitting the quick releases for the restraints at his wrists, pushing him to a sitting position so that he can follow him up onto the bed and release his ankles, too. 

Once free, he pushes Dean down onto his back and he goes like a ragdoll, as glassy-eyed and pliant as Castiel can imagine it’s possible to get. It’s an incredible, beautiful thing to see, and Castiel soaks up every second of it. “Gorgeous,” he says, as he slides hands up Dean’s thighs and pushes them apart to crawl in between, barely remembering to roll on a condom as he does. “You are incredible, Dean.”

When Castiel pushes inside, Dean groans loudly with relief and reaches out to touch, retracting his hand quickly as if he isn’t sure that he’s allowed. “Go on,” Castiel says encouragingly as he thrusts shallowly. “Touch whatever you like, you’ve earned it.” To his surprise, Dean threads arms around his neck, pulling him down so that his own legs are bent up nearly to his chest. He wants skin-to-skin, wants them as close as possible, and Castiel _knows_ he shouldn’t allow it, but can’t bring himself to deprive this Dean of anything.

Instead, he sets about fucking Dean deep and hard, making him cry out and dig fingers into Castiel’s shoulder blades with every thrust. “Please, Sir, please please please let me come, please, I—”

“You can come, Dean,” Castiel replies fervently, doing his best to shut Dean up because it’s _too much,_ for _him,_ and oh, Castiel should have fucked him with the blindfold on because his _eyes—_

Castiel’s too late to stop Dean from coming while looking straight up at him, eyes brimming with lust and longing, at least until they squeeze shut with pleasure, and isn’t that some kind of bizarre relief? Still, with Dean clenching around him and the memory of the _desire,_ the _want,_ the _trust_ in his green eyes, in his expression, Castiel groans into Dean’s shoulder as he spills inside him, filling the condom and wishing it wasn’t between them. 

He only takes a moment to catch his breath in the warm crook of Dean’s neck before he’s sitting up, very aware that Dean is sore and will need a significant amount of care and attention before they can collapse tonight. That’s obvious when Castiel accidentally leans on his shoulder to sit up and Dean winces before blinking up at Castiel, wide-eyed and unsure.

“Sir?” he asks timidly, very quietly, very _un-_ Dean-like, which makes Castiel start despite his exhaustion. “Was that...okay?” 

Despite himself and the fact that he knows that Dean is serious, Castiel can’t help it, he bursts out laughing. Only for a moment, and then he reins it in. Cupping Dean’s cheek and leaning down to kiss him softly, he smiles. “I don’t lie to my subs, Dean,” he says. “When I told you that you were perfect, I meant it.” Dean still looks unsure, so Castiel sighs and takes his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you believe that I would lie to you?” he asks sternly, and Dean looks surprised.

“No,” he says, after a moment. “Of course not.” 

Releasing him, Castiel pats the side of his face. If only he could reassure Dean with the truth, the fact that he’s never had a more satisfying, a more arousing sexual encounter in his _life,_ but clearly, Dean would not appreciate that. No, Castiel needs to keep those feelings and revelations to himself, but that doesn’t mean he can’t reassure Dean as best he’s able. “I’m extremely pleased with you, Dean,” he says. “If you’ll roll over onto your stomach, I’m going to retrieve some juice and some lotion, and then I’ll be happy to show you how much. ”

As Castiel makes his way over to the armoire that houses his mini-fridge, he chances a glance over his shoulder and finds Dean already on his stomach, watching. He flashes Castiel a sleepy smile and then yawns, and Castiel’s heart nearly stops. 

Damn, but he is so, so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cas is still a pretty sweet Dom, especially when he's needy, I think. We gotta up his nasty level a little, he def has it in him. 😂 
> 
> Next time: Aftercare from Dean's POV, Cas is conflicted, Dean worries, a new kind of wake-up call, double trouble, an unexpected exchange, some brotherly advice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: miscommunication, minor/ongoing sub drop, dean's feelings of abandonment  
> Sex stuff: Somnophilia, manhandling, light slapping, spit-roasting, dildos, hair-pulling, subspace, hand-feeding, praise kink, more bottom dean, so much bottom dean.
> 
> A reminder that Dean and Cas have pre-negotiated their kinks and limits and Cas is NOT springing anything on Dean that he hasn't already expressed interest in! This is a TOUGH chapter but this situation is a 2-chapter arc and will be resolved next time--this is not how the entire fic is going to go, it's just something they need to work through.
> 
> THANK YOU AGAIN to @MalMuses and @coinofstone for editing and for not letting me post a hot fucking mess.

Dean is fucked. 

And not just in the literal, obvious way that’s currently making his throat and ass ache in equal measure, although that’s true too. Ironically, that’s also the one thing between him and Cas that’s going very, very right. 

Dean’s man enough to admit it’s possible he’s being a little dramatic there. After all, him and Cas are fine, at least as far as Cas has any idea. Dean’s the one that’s messed up in the head, that’s feeling guilty for enjoying this whole “aftercare” thing a little more than he should. But Cas gave him a free pass to press up against his chest, to tangle their legs together and lean into Cas’ fingers as they slip through his hair, while his soothing hand runs down his flank.That’s definitely not helping things, but it isn’t like Dean’s turning it down, either. 

No, he’s definitely doing this to himself, but at least his cover is solid. If Dean’s going to lie here risking his sanity just to revel in getting Castiel’s affection exactly the way he’s always dreamed of having it, he can at least take comfort in the fact that it’s technically what he’s _supposed_ to be doing. As far as Cas is concerned, Dean is simply taking what he offers, accepting what _Cas_ thinks Dean needs after their scene. The end result (cuddling on steroids) is both the worst and best situation he could imagine, and it would take a stronger man than Dean to turn it all down. 

Another complicating factor is that with Dean being so new to this whole scene, he isn’t entirely familiar with what “aftercare” normally involves or should entail, and has mostly been relying on what Cas has told him or what he’s read about it online. But, Cas clearly believes everything he’s doing is important, necessary, even, which probably makes it even easier to accept. That’s definitely something to fall back on, should Cas ever become suspicious of Dean’s intentions and motives—the whole, “I dunno what I’m doing here, man,” thing is as perfect an excuse as Dean could hope for. 

Push comes to shove, though, Dean’s fairly certain that these internal conflicts, the things he can’t stop himself from wanting and from taking when they’re offered, no matter how much guilt it piles on his conscience, aren’t even on Cas’ radar. 

The guy is _focused,_ Dean will say that much. While he was still busy basking in the afterglow, toes not even finished tingling from the mind-numbing orgasm Cas gifted him, Cas practically jumped off of the bed and back into action. He was adamant about rubbing Dean down thoroughly, working all of the strain from his shoulders and arms, and he took nearly an hour following their scene to do so. 

Not that Dean’s complaining—hell, it was one of the best massages of Dean’s life, and he enjoyed every damn second of it. Cas’ hands are magic and the weight of his body, his knees bracketing Dean’s hips from behind, well, Dean would be hard-pressed to think of any other place in the world he’d rather be.

And the touching—that was nothing to sneeze at, either. As if he could sense Dean’s needs, Cas had only left him alone on the bed for as long as it took to get wipes to clean up, a bottle of juice from the little fridge, and some massage oil. Then he was back, and ever since, some part of his skin has constantly been in contact with some part of Dean’s. It’s impressive, how careful and thoughtful Castiel is, how he _always_ is when it comes to Dean. 

It’s just that...well, Dean can’t help but suspect all of those things were very clearly items Cas had on his _agenda,_ things he planned for and was prepared to deliver in advance. They don’t amount to anything more than a BDSM to-do list, stuff Cas felt like he _needed_ to do because it was right and necessary. Unlike Dean, his post-sex actions weren’t based on his desires or a desperate need to touch and hold Dean close, the way Dean himself is driven to accept them. It messes with his head a little, and he repeatedly reminds himself that Cas is his _friend._ He does care in his own way, even if it’s not the way Dean wants him to.

That knowledge and those intrusive thoughts kept popping up during Cas’ rubdown, keeping Dean from relaxing completely, and to Dean’s chagrin, Castiel took notice. Fortunately, he thought the uneasy discomfort was related to Dean’s pain level, force-feeding him a handful of ibuprofen and setting him up with alternating ice and heat for his shoulders, no matter how much Dean protested.

Dean learned rather quickly that Dom Cas isn’t someone you argue with, not for fun and definitely not for keeps, and that in the end, it was easier to just let Castiel fuss over him. So Dean gave in and allowed himself to savor his touch and his attentions, and to be fair, the pampering wasn’t _not_ enjoyable. If Dean’s being honest, he might even like it more than the sex.

After, while Dean was laid up with his ice packs (again, unnecessary, but it did feel good), Castiel ordered them dinner from Dean’s favorite burger joint. Castiel even brought the food in to Dean set up on a fancy-looking lap tray with real plates and utensils, like they were in a five-star restaurant. At his insistence, Castiel hand fed Dean while kissing his mouth between bites and praising him all the while, as though he’d been doing something difficult and burdensome, not literally being finger-fed like a spoiled, lazy Prince. 

It initially made Dean feel somewhat uncomfortable, but Castiel seemed _so_ pleased, so into what he was doing, that Dean found himself slowly relaxing into it and enjoying himself, smiling and kissing Castiel back without really thinking about it. Despite his lingering embarrassment over just how much aftercare Castiel apparently thinks he needs, Dean has to admit, it’s not the worst feeling in the world, being cared for so thoroughly. Almost like he’s special or important, words he struggles to apply to himself in any way outside of this space. 

But here, Castiel’s easy way of making things feel natural between them, his determination to treat Dean with care and respect, spills over into Dean’s own ability to accept those things for what they are. 

And maybe, a _tiny_ part of him can admit that he wants to, but only inside his own head. Hey, Rome wasn’t built in a fuckin’ day.

So now, here Dean is, laid out on Castiel’s playroom bed with his belly full, mind and muscles sated and relaxed, staring aimlessly up at the ceiling. At some point, Castiel slipped a pair of sweatpants on but Dean hasn’t bothered, enjoying the feel of the crisp, clean sheets on his back and the gentle air from the overhead fan whispering across his bare skin. Castiel’s sitting propped against the headboard, his ankles crossed casually and Dean’s head in his lap, where it’s been for at least the last half-hour. 

All told, they’ve spent easily twice the amount of time recovering from their scene as they did engaging with it tonight, and Dean wonders absently if that’s normal or not. It’s not like he has any frame of reference to know. He’s _just_ about to open his mouth and ask, when Castiel clears his throat and shifts underneath him. 

“How are you feeling, now?” he asks, his palm coming down to smooth over Dean’s chest before cupping his chin. “Still sore?” 

“I’m good,” Dean replies honestly, tipping his head back and catching a glimpse of Castiel’s soft smile directed down at him. “Really, I swear. Sir,” he adds smugly, tacking the moniker onto the end of his reply like an afterthought, intentionally bratty.

“I believe you, Dean,” Castiel assures him, ignoring Dean’s dangling bait, and then it’s silent for a moment while Cas’ finger traces Dean’s collar bone and down the line of his sternum. “I know you don’t wish to debrief, but may I at least ask if you enjoyed yourself?” 

Unprepared for that particular twist in the conversation, Dean barks out a laugh and grins up at his Dom when he’s able. “Uh, yea, you could say that,” he replies, pulling his lip slowly and provocatively through his teeth. Cas seems pleased, his face nearly glowing in the dim light, and Dean likes the look on him, wants more than anything to make Cas look like that all the damn time. All because of him. 

“It’s late,” Castiel tells him gently, still stroking soft fingers across Dean’s chest and the side of his face. “Time… got away from us tonight, not that I’m complaining. However, I may fall asleep on you shortly if I don’t admit that between that difficult shift and tonight’s activities, I’m running out of steam. And that is the last thing I want.” 

“Oh,” Dean says weakly, surprised and unprepared for Castiel to be kicking him to the curb tonight, but he sits up and moves to start gathering his things, anyway. It makes sense. Cas is tired, Cas deserves some time to himself. The last thing he needs is a high-maintenance sub hanging out in his space, sapping his energy and—

“No, Dean, wait—” Castiel reaches out an arm and catches him around the wrist, tugging him back down onto the mattress. “That wasn’t a subtle suggestion that you should leave. On the contrary, if you’re interested in doing another scene tomorrow morning, I would very much like for you to stay.” The earnest look on Cas’ face, his wide blue eyes nearly pleading for Dean to accept the offer has Dean feeling like putty in his best friend’s hands. Who on earth could deny someone who looks like _that_ when they want something? 

“You know, you can pretty safely assume that the yes reply to your “wanna do it again?” is a given with me,” he replies, pasting on his best smirk for Cas’ benefit. 

“Be that as it may, the scene I have in mind is exciting but intense and I—well, you said you didn’t want any spoilers. Now that I know you’re up for it, I suppose I have what I need and can let you be.” With that, Castiel gets up from the bed and saunters towards the door and while Dean can’t see his face, he doesn’t need to in order to know that Cas is wearing a smirk of his own. 

“Oh, that is cold, C— _Sir,_ ” he corrects himself, just in time.

When Castiel turns in the doorway, he’s sporting a full-on predatory grin, and Dean can’t help but marvel at how _he’s_ supposed to be the brat in this relationship. Damn. But then he sees Cas stifling a yawn and Dean’s back to wishing he hadn’t left the bed, that they were about to curl up together and just _be—_ no structure, no boundaries, no expectations. They’ve only really done this twice and it’s already becoming difficult for Dean to switch gears, to turn his outward desire towards Cas off and on like a lightswitch. 

“So you’ll stay?” Cas is asking, when Dean tunes back in.

“I’ll stay,” Dean allows, scooting back onto the bed and spreading his arms wide on the pillows. “You know, this mattress _is_ huge,” he adds, shooting for casual. “Plenty of room for two… No reason we can’t sleep in the same place again, right? I thought it was pretty nice last time. I mean, you know, if you wanted to.”

To Dean’s dismay, Castiel’s face does about a thousand things all at once, none of which mean anything good for Dean. _Oh fuck,_ he thinks, realizing with some horror that he’s just made a huge mistake that’s about to turn things incredibly awkward. Cas doesn’t want to sleep next to him, of course he doesn’t. That’s not what this is, not what either of them agreed to and now, thanks to Dean’s selfish idiocy, Cas thinks he has to figure out how to say so without coming off like a major-league dick. _Shit._

So Dean does what he does best, he rushes to make a joke. “Dude, relax,” he says with what he hopes is an easygoing laugh as he tucks his hands casually behind his head. Cas is so obviously distraught that he doesn’t even catch the slip, doesn’t remind Dean that he’s wearing his collar and that it’s _“Sir”_ right now. “You should see your face. I was just messing with you, didn’t think you’d take it so seriously. Go on, get out of here. Dean Winchester does not cuddle.” He punctuates the last sentence with a pointed finger and an equally sharp look that has Castiel’s face melting into pure relief.

After that, Cas can’t seem to get out of the room fast enough, though he does take the time to remind Dean that there’s more juice in the fridge and that he’s welcome to come out and watch TV if he can’t sleep, or use anything in the apartment he’d like to make himself at home. It’s cute and unnecessary, and it makes Dean’s chest tight to watch Cas try to compensate for not wanting to stay with Dean. 

When the door shuts behind him, leaving the room dark and empty, the smile drops from Dean’s face immediately. Inwardly, he vows to be more careful, to never let something like that happen again. Cas is in this for one thing and one thing only, and like _fuck_ is Dean going to let his inconvenient emotions ruin this for the both of them.

Before Castiel ran away, he’d also let Dean know that he could remove his collar if he wanted to, for sleep. That he was under no obligation to stay in “sub-mode” overnight or into the morning, not if he didn’t want to. If he’s being honest, for the first time since Castiel gave him the collar, the temptation to take it off is there. Seeing Castiel reject his offer to stay in the same bed was tough, and Dean would be lying if he said a little distance from the whole arrangement didn’t sound good right now. 

But on the other hand, his emotions are on the edge. He hasn’t experienced any sort of “drop” yet for himself and he hasn’t seen any signs of it on Castiel, but the potential is certainly there, he can feel it. While he may not grasp fully all the minutiae of aftercare and the details particular to _Cas_ versus Doms in general, Dean definitely gets the importance of it now. And Cas did do a great job with him tonight, but there’s still… something. A lingering instability in the back of Dean’s mind, a crawling worry or fear that he can’t quite articulate just yet. 

He’s not an idiot. Dean knows perfectly well that those feelings are an indicator of drop, but they’re not overwhelming him, not taking over his thoughts in any way that he can’t still control. So instead of going to find Cas and filling him in— _especially_ knowing that Cas wants to be in his own bed, not trapped in here with him right now—Dean fights it off. 

He goes to the armoire with the fridge, grabs a juice, and settles back into bed. He retrieves his phone from the pants he left folded and off to the side of the bathroom and thumbs through a mindless internet game. After popping virtual soda bottles for the better part of a half-hour, Dean feels a little better, but not fully like himself. He lets out a sigh and glances around the dark room. His widened pupils take in the shadows of the equipment, the armoires towering overhead, looking at least twice as big with the deep shadows stretching out around them. 

The collar sits weighty on his neck. It itches and feels tight, whereas usually, it makes him feel free. Right now, there’s nothing Dean would like to do more than take it off, but just the idea of doing so has him feeling worse. What if he wakes up in full drop and can’t find his collar, or can’t get it back on? What if he goes to the bathroom to piss and panics, and his collar isn’t nearby? Cas made things crystal clear—he won’t touch him when he’s not wearing it, and Dean _can’t_ risk that right now. 

As he scoots down into the bed and finally pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, Dean grumbles quietly to himself. It’s frustrating, to have these emotions swirling around inside of him. He’s annoyed that he’s feeling this way, annoyed that he needs Castiel and can’t have him, annoyed that Castiel would apparently rather be anywhere than at his side tonight. Dean closes his eyes and takes a few slow, calming breaths. The irritation, the prickly attitude, none of it passes or starts to go away. Ultimately, Dean is still with it enough to recognize what’s up, but that doesn’t mean he’s about to ruin Cas’ night over it.

Instead, Dean decides to go deep. Squeezing his eyelids tight, he thinks back on their scene, on the way Castiel looked at him and some of the things that he said. 

_“Good boy,"_ Castiel had murmured, his voice warm and rich and appreciative. Dean can still hear the words ringing in his head, can still feel Cas’ breath soft against his skin.

 _“Perfect. You’re perfect.”_ That one was whispered against Dean’s mouth and he’d swallowed every word greedily, gulped them down desperately, flaming with embarrassment to hear them directed his way and yet, they felt _so_ damn good. He treasures the memory now.

And there were more. So many more, and Dean drowns himself in each recollection, one at a time.

 _“An incredible creature,"_ Castiel had called him. _“So deserving of my affection, my attention.”_

Those are the words Dean clings to here in the lonely dark, letting the tone of Cas’ voice in his head, the memory of the gentle caress of his hands, soothe and pacify him. When the impact of those starts to fade, he moves onto thinking about the way Castiel cared for him when they were done. The way he spoke softly, the way he tipped juice into Dean’s parched mouth. The incredible massage, the ice packs and the heating pad, his favorite burger ordered from Cas’ memory and fed from Cas’ fingertips— _bliss._

It works. 

The tendrils snaking out from the darkest corners of Dean’s mind retract, dissipating slowly but surely back into the ether. His mood evens out and stabilizes, no longer setting his teeth on edge or making him clench his fists in raw irritation. In fact, the entire day starts catching up with him fairly quickly, making Dean’s eyelids heavy and his thoughts fuzzy. Even as he drifts off to sleep, Dean still wishes he wasn’t alone, but there’s nothing he can do about that now.

All he can hope for at this point is more of whatever Cas is willing to give, tomorrow. 

Dean already knows he’ll take it, whatever parts of Cas that are on offer. Dean will take it all.

***

Waking up is confusing for Dean, the warm body pressing up against his back something he’s extremely sure wasn’t there when he went to sleep. A quick glance towards the covered windows shows the barest fringe of bright light leaking out from curtains’ edges— _morning._ Despite the fuzziness in his head, Dean’s dick is having none of the same qualms, fully on board with the big, warm hand stroking it firmly. 

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel’s still sleep-rough voice rumbles in his ear and against his skin, warm breath ghosting over Dean’s shoulder and down over the back of his neck. There’s a knee nudging between his thighs and Dean finds himself parting his legs instinctively, letting Castiel manipulate him however he likes. That includes, apparently, mouthing at his collar, nosing at it and nipping the sensitive skin just underneath which, even in Dean’s sleep-groggy state, has him rolling his eyes. 

Not to say that Dean doesn’t like his collar, _hell_ no, he loves it, loves how free he gets to be when he’s wearing it, loves everything it represents. At the same time, he’d be lying if he said Cas’ obsession with the thing wasn’t starting to grate. Waking up to Castiel worshipping the little strip of leather first thing brings Dean right back to that negative headspace he’d worked so hard to fight off when he was left alone the night before. Still, it’s hard to argue with being jerked off in Cas’ arms as an alarm clock, though how that happened, Dean can’t begin to figure out. He supposes (like everything else lately) that he should probably just sit back and enjoy, and not question it. 

Just when he’s starting to relax and sink back into Castiel’s grip, it disappears completely and so does Castiel’s reassuring presence behind him. Unable to suppress the urge in time, Dean groans and smacks the mattress with his palm as he buries his face into the pillow. “ _Cas,”_ he grunts, voice muffled significantly by the pillow, but Castiel catches the slip anyway and swats him— _hard—_ on the meat of his ass. “Ouch!” Dean yelps, rolling over and sitting up, rubbing a hand protectively over his stinging skin as he does.

The lights are on and Dean blinks against them groggily, still not entirely awake. They’re dim at least, but plenty high enough for Dean to see the room and that Castiel’s been busy while he slept. He narrows his eyes and glares at the man as he strides—buck naked and clearly very pleased with himself—around the bed to stand at Dean’s side.

”What the hell,” Dean mutters, rubbing at his eyes and trying to figure out why there’s a foam mat on the floor to his left and a _hefty_ sized dildo sticking jauntily out from the wall. He’s sure (well, ninety-five percent) that monstrosity wasn’t there when he went to sleep, any more than Cas was in his bed. 

“What was that?” Castiel asks smugly, cupping a hand around his ear, blatantly mocking Dean while simultaneously trying to ascertain exactly _how_ much of a brat he’s intending to be. When Dean doesn’t answer, Castiel hums and cards a hand through his hair, tightening his fingers at the back in subtle warning before abruptly letting go. “You kept your collar on,” he says, tone thoughtful, but pleased. “And you’re familiar with the rules, yes?” It’s an olive branch, an out, or at least a last chance of sorts, but Dean’s grumpy this morning and while he _does_ want Cas to fuck him six ways ‘til Sunday, he’s irritated enough to mouth off and see what happens. 

Glaring up at Castiel from under his lashes, Dean licks his lips and holds steady eye contact while he carefully annunciates, “Fuck the rules, _Sir_.” 

Dean’s cheek is stinging before he even fully registers what happened, his head whipped to the side as Castiel’s palm makes sharp contact with the side of his face. No time for recovery—or even to take a breath—given, Castiel grabs Dean’s chin in his hand and forces him to make eye contact again, his own eyes glinting with amusement and promise and Dean has zero— _fucking zero—_ regrets. 

_Hit me again,_ his brain supplies, and Dean wants it so badly he nearly says so out loud.

“Color, Dean,” a righteous Castiel demands, and even if Dean didn’t have a front-row seat to Cas’ dick filling out against his thigh right the fuck in front of him, he’d be able to see the arousal, the _intention_ coloring his face.

Before answering, Dean works his jaw a little and pauses, just to piss Castiel off. “Green,” he says finally, right as Cas is opening his mouth to do god-knows-what, Dean’s never going to find out. Against his better judgement, he smirks a little, and Castiel grabs him by the thighs, yanks him towards the edge of the bed and then tosses him over onto his stomach in one _incredibly_ swift (and hot) motion.

“Fuck!” Dean yells, mostly in surprise because he’s certainly not hurt. Actually, the way his face smarts from Cas’ hand feels seriously fuckin’ awesome, and Dean’s not entirely sure what to do with that information. Sure, he’s messed around with pain here or there in the past—a tweaked nipple, some biting, even a little spanking, though nothing like what Cas dishes out. And he’s always known that he _likes_ it, that sharp edge where the pain cuts into and ramps up his pleasure, but he’s never sought it out or experimented, not until now. 

Seems like Cas might be the one to change all that, and Dean’s body thrills at the thought.

He decides not to overthink it—he’ll trust Cas, stay in the moment, and worry about anything else later. 

Good thing, because Dean barely has three seconds to grapple with the fact that Cas can throw him around like an inflatable pool toy if he wants to before the sound of lube snapping open behind him can be heard. And then Cas’ hand is in between Dean’s shoulder blades, holding him down while he presses _two_ fingers up into his hole. They’re slippery and cold and Dean wriggles beneath his Dom, just because he can. 

“Color,” Cas demands, his fingers stilling inside Dean while the hand on his back presses down more firmly and Dean grins into the bedsheets, forgetting that Cas can’t see him.

“Green, _Sir,_ ” he replies enthusiastically, and Castiel’s answering murmur of acknowledgment sounds positively _predatory_. 

“You’re still fairly loose from last night,” he declares, and Dean fists his fingers into the sheets, somewhat embarrassed by that announcement, although Cas seems pleased. “Very fortunate for you, since I’m not in the mood to reward your brattiness with careful prep.” Despite his words, Cas lingers where he is, scissoring his fingers and running them along the edge of Dean’s hole, partly perfunctory but partly teasing, which Dean only realizes when Castiel dips his fingers in far enough to brush intentionally over his prostate, making him gasp and jerk. 

The laugh Castiel lets out at Dean’s expense is low and dark, and perhaps for the first time, Dean wonders if he _really_ knows Cas at all. 

The pressing weight of Cas’ knees against Dean’s thighs and the fingers toying with his ass vanish then, and the mattress shifts as Castiel moves away. “Stand up, _boy_ ,” Castiel demands, and the way he says it makes the hair on Dean’s arms and the back of his neck prickle and raise. 

Disobedient mood aside, something tells him to stow his bullshit, at least for a minute. As such, Dean scoots backward off of the bed without a word, turning to find Castiel wiping his hands off with a towel and scrutinizing him with focused interest. He steps forward, well into Dean’s space, and touches a finger to his own lips, the other wrapped across his naked chest. Cocking his head to the side, he says nothing as his eyes search for something in Dean’s face, in his posture, and fuck if Dean knows what the hell he might be looking for. 

Shifting uncomfortably under Cas’ gaze, Dean does manage to keep his mouth shut, but it’s a close thing. As Cas’ eyes continue to roam, he struggles not to blurt out, “see something you like?” Or, “take a picture, it’ll last longer,” but he does think about it. If the glint in Cas’ eye is any indication, he knows it, too. _Fuck that,_ Dean thinks obstinately. If that’s what Castiel wants to provoke, he’ll fuckin’ give him the opposite. 

After several minutes, though, the silence gets to be too much for Dean, and he breaks. “Sir?” he asks warily, struggling to maintain eye contact under Castiel’s unrelenting, unapologetic stare. 

The tension in the room breaks, Castiel’s reaction to Dean’s unsure question entirely unexpected—he grins. Finger still tapping against his lips, Castiel _grins_ and yea, Dean was right about the laughter, because that thing is definitely predatory. “Oh, _now_ it’s _Sir_?” Castiel taunts, rocking back on his heels before stepping forward so that they’re toe-to-toe and moving his finger from his lips to the middle of Dean’s chest. 

Barely two inches shorter, Castiel tips his head up, and he’s so beautiful he’s almost ethereal. Dark eyelashes fanning against his cheeks, revealing rings of dark blue that Dean’s stupid brain wishes he could fall and drown in forever. He’s close enough now that Dean _could_ lean forward and kiss him, but in all honestly, Castiel’s never felt more untouchable, never seemed more out of his reach. He’s all effortless power and control in the way he holds his body, emanating confidence and security in a way that Dean can’t even fathom owning for himself.

The way Cas is looking at him right now, Dean wouldn’t lift his hands from his sides for all the money in the world. _This_ version of Cas—from the way he moves, to the way he speaks, to the way he pins Dean in place with just his gaze—is something Dean can’t help but respect. To his surprise, he finds his bratty attitude evaporating like an early morning fog, replaced by the pure desire for Castiel to give him another chance to kneel. Fuck, he really wants to kneel for this Cas.

“I could make you submit,” Castiel says softly, so quietly Dean almost misses it. “I _could_ and I will, if that is truly what you desire. But…” He hesitates, cupping Dean’s jaw with a surprisingly gentle hand, considering the still-throbbing print it recently left on the side of his face. “For today, at least, I’d prefer if you’d go willingly.” 

And that would have been enough, Dean absolutely would have dropped to his knees right then and there, but Castiel apparently isn’t done. As soon as he stops talking, he leans forward, one hand on Dean’s shoulder and the other on his waist as he presses an impossibly tender kiss to Dean’s lips. It’s so in contrast with the threat and with what Dean expected to happen, he’s pretty much powerless to do anything but kiss back. The only thing Dean manages to keep control of are his hands and feet, which he only _just_ stops from grabbing Castiel by both sides of his face and walking him back towards the bed. 

_Focus, Winchester,_ he scolds himself internally, keeping his eyes closed for a moment to gather his shit as Castiel steps away. When he opens them again, Castiel’s staring back in amusement, tapping his lips again and pointedly raising his eyebrows. “If you’re ready,” he says, the ghost of a smile flitting across his lips, there and gone. “Over on the mat, next to the armoire. Kneel and face me.” 

Taking a deep breath in and letting it out slowly, Dean complies without argument or complaint. How could he not, after all of that? As he walks over, he takes in the way the mat is pushed all the way up against the wall, the way the enormous dildo is secured only a couple of feet—not even—up from the ground, when it clicks. 

_Oh._

Unable to fully believe how slow on the uptake he’s been, Dean struggles to control the flush in his cheeks when he thinks about the scene Castiel is setting. In fact, for once, he’s struggling to _not_ let the litany of questions he’s got flying through his head fall from his lips, but on the other hand, he really _doesn’t_ want to worry about any of it. So instead of leaning into the anxiety and the mounting anticipation, Dean turns away from the dildo and back towards Cas, sinks to his knees, and lets it all go. 

One more deep breath: five seconds in, five seconds out, and Dean is ready. 

“Very good,” Castiel praises, and Dean, with his eyes closed, lets him, nearly sighing with relief when he feels Cas’ hand in his hair once again. “There’s my good boy. Now, get on all fours.” 

The vinyl of the mat is cool against his palms, slightly sticky on his skin, and Dean already knows that if he’s stuck in one place for a long period of time, he’s going to be peeling himself off of this thing later. Whether that’s an intentional slight on Castiel’s part or not, he has no idea, but he works himself into place without a word. No longer in the mood for games, Dean doesn’t make any bones about spreading his legs and backing himself up into position, the wide head of the silicone cock bumping against an ass cheek as he does. 

“Do you like it?” Castiel muses, the question obviously rhetorical as he drags a hand over Dean’s shoulder and down his back, grabbing the fake cock and teasing it into his crack, but no further. “It’s screwed to the wall, so we can be as rough as we like, it won’t come off. I’ll bet you didn’t notice the various mounting hardware I have all over the place, hmm?” 

It’s clearly a suggestion, and Dean obliges, opening his eyes to glance around the room from this new angle. From down here, he sees what Castiel is referring to, an assortment of inconspicuous tiny holes in the wall or screws sticking out less than an inch at varying heights. It’s not as intimidating as Castiel maybe means for it to be, but Dean for _sure_ wants to get Cas to show him all the shit he has hidden in this room at some point, preferably soon. 

For now, though, Dean’s got other things on his mind, like how the fuck that giant cock is going to fit in his ass. Cas is big, and his fingers this morning felt like nothing but a good time, but the fake dick is no joke. While Castiel stands and rummages in an upper drawer of the armoire to Dean’s left, Dean breathes and tries to center himself, knowing that relaxation is going to be key to making Cas’ plan work. Strangely, he’s not nearly as concerned about the potential pain and discomfort as he is the idea of disappointing Castiel, or worse, making Cas think he’s not actually trying. 

When Castiel returns, it’s to prod at his ass some more, and Dean jerks away when he feels something being inserted. It’s not the dildo though, it’s something thin and slick that barely registers, except that Cas uses it to _inject something_ inside of him. “Lube,” Cas explains easily, as if this is a thing Dean should have expected, and okay, he’s _read_ about it, but being confronted with the reality of it is, well, fucking confronting. 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean murmurs as Castiel takes the syringe away, shifting and wiggling against the feeling of the lube settling inside him. 

“Still just Sir,” Castiel replies in amusement, and then he’s back kneeling at Dean’s side, wrapping an arm around his waist to take hold of his flagging erection and stroke him hard again. While he does, Castiel’s soft and affectionate, kissing over Dean’s shoulders and spine, propping a hand next to Dean’s on the mat so he can keep as much of their bodies touching as possible. 

“I can’t wait to see you take this cock,” he says quietly, plainly, like he’s innocent, like this isn’t one of the dirtiest things Dean’s ever done. “You know, I’d love to see you take a real one, besides mine, but I’m far too possessive to share.” Dean shivers at the suggestion, his body relaxing minutely because that _does_ sound really hot. Not that he’d want to bring someone else into this messed up thing he’s doing with Cas and his emotions, but even he can admit—the fantasy is sexy as hell. 

“You like that, do you?” Castiel takes notice because of course he does, pushing himself upright so that he can stroke a hand down Dean’s side and finger his rim, teasing the head of the fake cock up against it. “Perhaps we’ll explore this more, then. I know you’re not interested in sharing, so is it more the idea of being watched? Is that a fantasy of yours, Dean?” 

_Nailed it,_ Dean thinks, but he bites his lip instead of speaking, because Cas is lubing up the cock and guiding Dean back onto it, just the tip pushing past his tight ring of muscle. He moans a little as it pops inside, struggling to breathe deeply and fighting to relax against the significant intrusion—the thing feels even bigger than it looked, and it didn’t look small. 

“I think it is,” Castiel says anyway, undeterred by Dean’s lack of participation in the conversation. “I think you’d get off on the idea of someone watching me take you, of being naked and vulnerable beneath my hands in public, or where others could happen by. I wouldn’t let anyone touch you, you know that well enough. You know that I’d protect you, surely, but do you know that I’d show you off? I’d be so proud Dean.” Castiel hums, his giant hands soothing tracks up and down Dean’s sides, encouraging him to slide back, to take more of the dildo, to rock against it until he can. 

Dean, for his part, just lets it happen. He revels in Castiel’s dirty talk, flexes fingers against the mat beneath him, moans low and long when the dildo finally presses against his prostate. Eyes falling shut, his mouth drops open and Dean pants as he adjusts to being so increasingly full. It doesn’t hurt—not really, but it’s not easy to accommodate something this big, so it takes time enough for Dean to be ready to really _move_. All the while, Castiel just watches and touches him gently, adds lube when he thinks Dean needs it, and _talks._

“Yes,” he encourages, thumb dragging over Dean’s lip and his own erection bumping against Dean’s side. “I would be so proud of you, taking my cock so easily, letting me bend you over the nearest surface while every eye in the room is on us. You’d be so gorgeous, just like you are now—ass cheeks pink from my hand, of course, eyes glazed over, just perfect. Perhaps I’d grab your hair—” And he does, yanking Dean’s head up in a way that jerks his body back and settles him nearly all the way onto the dildo, tilting it this way and that as if he’s really showing him off. 

“—Let them see your face, how hungry and desperate you are for my cock, what a slut you are for _me,_ only for me. Would there be tear tracks running down your cheeks? I do love when you cry. Think of how jealous they’d be, that they can’t have you. Think of how their eyes would roam over your body, watching me slide in and out of you, watching me stroke your cock, just like this.” The mewling whine Dean lets out when Castiel touches him again is truly pathetic, but Dean can’t care, so lost in Cas’ praise and his appreciation that he can hardly focus on anything but hearing more. 

At this point, the cock is moving fairly easily in and out of Dean’s ass, its girth wide enough and the angle just right to provide some major pressure on his prostate on every stroke. While he hasn’t before, Dean’s starting to think that he could maybe come like this, especially if Cas keeps talking. 

But then suddenly Castiel moves, leaving Dean’s side to shuffle over and kneel in front of his face. There’s no warning, but Dean is still one step ahead of him, mouth already open and seeking when Castiel deftly rolls a condom over his dick and offers it up.

“My God, you are perfection,” Castiel praises, and Dean revels, eyes drifting closed once again as he takes whatever Cas sees fit to give him. Letting himself float away, Dean fucks his body on the dildo while sucking and swirling his tongue around the cock in his mouth like a goddamn pro. The condom tastes like ass and Dean knows he’s probably drooling, knows he’s nearly completely spaced out, but if the increasing thrusts, the hand in his hair and the one on his cheek are any indication, Cas likes what he sees and that makes Dean fuckin’ happy. 

He works himself harder, the toy making slick sounds as it slides in and out of him, the pressure building in his gut and at the base of his spine, and it’s clear that from the way his words start to slur that Cas is close, too. Dean can’t even make out what he’s saying anymore, just the pattern and the tone. It’s soothing; Cas is pleased, Cas is proud, Cas thinks he’s a good boy, that’s all Dean needs to know. 

His orgasm sneaks up on him, building and cresting slowly, making him moan and cry and shake as his vision goes blurry and he comes in spurts with nothing but the fake cock milking his prostate. Even after he comes, Dean doesn’t stop, because Cas didn’t say he could. 

Cas is busy gasping and tightening the hand wrapped up in Dean's hair before his cock hits the back of Dean's throat one last time, shuddering and spurting come so hot that Dean can feel it, even through the latex. Ready and willing, Dean swallows around him, wishing desperately that he were sucking Castiel dry without being asked, continuing to lick around his annoyingly condom-covered shaft until Castiel makes a pained noise and pulls away.

It’s strange how, sore and exhausted as Dean is, he misses him already. 

“So good, Dean,” Castiel is saying, as he stops Dean’s motions with a firm hand on his shoulder, guiding Dean off of the dildo and up into his arms. “Are you able to walk with me to the bed?” 

Things are slightly hazy, Dean’s still spaced out and Cas’ chest is warm and inviting, so he sinks into it instinctively. “Whoa, whoa,” he hears Castiel say, and that snaps Dean out of it, at least enough to lift his head and register a pair of sensitive blue eyes looking down at him, crinkled at the edges and softer than he’s seen them look today.

“Hello, Dean,” he says and Dean manages a weak smile. “The bed?”

“Right,” Dean grits out, his voice rough and his throat sore, but this time when Cas tries, Dean lets himself be pulled to his feet and they stumble together over to the bed. “‘M fine,” he mutters, letting Castiel dump him onto the mattress and step away to retrieve the things he likes to use for aftercare. “Just tired.” He yawns, as if to punctuate the point. 

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, returning with a cracked bottle of orange juice and tipping it up so that Dean’s forced to drink at least half of it right away. At the very least, it washes the plasticky aftertaste of the condom away. 

“It’s early yet, probably around eight, now,” Cas is saying. “We can nap together as aftercare, if that sounds agreeable to you. I woke up in somewhat of a mood, as you may have noticed. I only came in here to retrieve the items we used last night for cleaning, and I saw that you kept your collar on…” He trails off, touching the side of Dean’s face with a gentle, appreciative expression Dean isn’t sure he’s seen on Cas before. “I couldn’t resist, and somnophilia was on your list of things you were very interested in trying.” 

“It was great,” Dean says sincerely, leaning back against the pillows and stretching. “All of it. Best damn way to start the day.” When Castiel just stands there staring down at him, Dean smiles and jerks his head toward the empty space next to him. “You comin’?” 

Seemingly shaking himself off, Castiel returns the smile and rounds the bed to slide in beside Dean. “Anything particularly sore? I could massage you again, if you like.” 

Finishing off the juice, Dean leaves it on the side table and turns into Castiel’s chest, tucking himself into the man’s side without shame or hesitation. Fuck it, Dean’s starting to get the hang of this give and take thing, and after last night, he’s not about to set himself up for major drop. If Cas is willing then Dean’s going to take what he needs, and what he needs right now are some extremely unmanly cuddles. It’s just a fact, and he’s too damn tired to pretend that it’s not. 

For a short moment, Castiel tenses up beneath him and Dean thinks he’s made a mistake, but then he relaxes completely, wraps arms around Dean’s body and pulls him close. He settles back into the pillow with a soft sigh, and the way he curves into Dean’s shape is both welcome and reassuring. _This is good,_ Dean thinks. _This is what I need._

Damn right, he’s going to take it. 

***

Contrary to what he expected after falling asleep in Cas’ arms, Dean wakes up the next time completely alone. As he pushes himself up to sitting and runs a hand through the disastrous state of his hair, he can’t help feeling just a little bit frustrated. If this were a normal relationship, he’d ask Cas outright, like, hey man, is this hot and cold bullshit you’re doing intentional? Is this just how these kind of things go? Am I seeing shit that isn’t there, or what? But because it’s not “normal”, at least according to what Dean is used to, and because Dean can’t think of a single way that Cas is _actually_ acting outside of their agreed-upon boundaries, that feels dangerous. 

So instead, he keeps his mouth shut, showers quietly, and pulls yesterday’s clothes back on. They’re what he changed into at the station from his work uniform—and they were off only minutes after entering Cas’ apartment—so they’re still basically clean, but somehow, they still make Dean feel a little bit dirty. 

Because he’s headed home, he avoids using Cas’ toothbrush again, opting to just swish some mouthwash around and hope that Cas doesn’t want to kiss him goodbye. Or maybe it’s an excuse to get out of doing exactly that; Dean’s not in the best mood for self-reflection. As he stares at himself in the mirror, he makes the abrupt decision to take his collar off, and to not give Cas the option at all.

Dressed and fairly clean, Dean finds Castiel in his kitchen, putting the finishing touches on two enormous sandwiches stuffed to the brim with meats and cheeses. The offer alone would normally be enough to get Dean on his knees all over again, but today he just feels… itchy. He _should_ be hungry, hasn’t eaten anything since Cas fed him last night and it’s— _what the hell time is it, anyway?_

Checking his phone, Dean realizes it’s later than he expected, nearing two in the afternoon. That explains the sandwiches, and probably Cas being out of bed, but Dean can’t focus on any of that right now. All of a sudden he feels claustrophobic, wants to be anywhere but here, in Cas’ space and under his thumb, whether he’s wearing his collar or not. It’s an unpleasant sensation, and while a large part of Dean knows he wouldn’t trade the things they’ve done for all the normality in the world, there’s another part of him that just wants his friend Cas back. 

“Hey,” he says to Cas’ back, doing his best to sound casual and put together, when he feels anything but. Across the kitchen, Castiel starts at the interruption, but has a big smile on his face when he turns around. Better believe Dean is looking for it, and he has to fight back a grimace when he sees Cas’ eyes flicker to his neck and register the missing collar, the way his smile dims accordingly. It shakes Dean, more than he’d like, and while he’s _pretty_ sure Cas doesn’t actually feel this way, it makes _him_ equate his self-worth with the collar and this submissive role he’s taken on.

Somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind, he knows this isn’t right. Knows that the feelings and emotions coursing through him are something off-kilter, something he should communicate with Castiel about and lean on him to fix. But Dean also feels embarrassed and unsure, because how much of this is _normal_ sub-drop and how much is related to his stupid emotions, the feelings he has for Castiel that he’s been hiding and lying about almost constantly over the past few days? Isn’t there a good chance he did this to himself, that he’s at fault here, for being stupid and selfish enough to jump into a relationship like this with a dude he’s _in love_ with? 

Dean knows one thing, for sure. He has to get the fuck out of here, right now. In fact, he barely registers Cas’ “good morning,” or any of the smalltalk he’s attempting to make. Heading straight for the door, Dean gives him the blatant brush-off and hopes it doesn’t come off as harsh as it feels when he mumbles something about having places to be today. 

“Oh,” Castiel replies, disappointment clouding his face as he stands in the little foyer of his apartment, still shirtless and fiddling with his hands as Dean pulls on his boots. His entire subdued demeanor only makes Dean feel worse and more determined to leave, before he makes a serious misstep or says something he can’t take back. “I was only—Well, it’s just that, you took your collar off and I thought perhaps you might like to go to the bar tonight? You know, as friends, like we—”

“Yea, no, not tonight, Cas.” Dean cuts him off swiftly, breezily, though he pauses when he sees the obvious hurt on Castiel’s face. “I’ve got plans with Sam,” he adds, trying to sound apologetic, relieved when Cas nods with supposed understanding. 

“Of course,” he says, before patting his pockets (he’s wearing pajama pants and doesn’t have any) and looking around like he’s misplaced something. There’s a small box, smaller than the one Dean returns his collar to, sitting on the table with the catch-all bowl and Castiel retrieves it, holds it out for Dean who accepts, albeit warily and with an eyebrow raised. “It’s just something I thought you should have,” Castiel rushes to explain and suddenly looking shy.

Inside the box is a key, a normal hardware store copy, but the key has a cute little printed version of the Maltese Cross and the fire symbology inside it. It’s not hard to figure out that this is a house key, and that the key was made for _him,_ not just anyone Cas might need to give it to. It’s thoughtful, and somehow does help assuage some of the irritation bubbling beneath Dean’s skin. It means that Cas has been thinking about him, about his potential needs, and Dean genuinely does appreciate that.

The gift forces him to stop for a moment and slow down, to take a deep breath and then let it out, to look Castiel in the eyes before he leaves. What he finds there is somewhat surprising—Castiel looks unsure, too, and if Dean didn’t know better, he might even use the word vulnerable. It has him stepping forward and tugging his friend into a hug, the significance of which should not be understated. Contact like this between them was rare before their arrangement—even the hug Dean gave Cas at the ER the other night was somewhat out of character, though he’d do that again in a heartbeat. Didn’t take a genius to see that Cas had really needed him there. 

But this—a hug just because? Dean is treading into dangerous waters here, putting toes over the line between their _contract_ and their friendship as it already exists. 

And yet, he can’t deny that it feels fucking _good._ Castiel is solid and warm in his grasp, he hasn’t showered so he smells musky and just faintly like sex, which is not unwelcome. And he clings to Dean, similar to the way he did the other night, his embrace full of need and relief at getting something he didn’t know that he wanted. 

When Dean pulls away, Castiel looks a little reluctant to let him go, but less sad. That change is enough for Dean to go back to putting himself first, which he really feels like he needs to do right now. “Alright, Cas,” he says gently, extricating himself from Cas’ grip and stepping away, raising his hand as he opens the door and offering up Castiel what he hopes is a kind smile. “I’ll talk to you soon.” 

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel replies, already back to tugging on his fingers as he stands there looking a little bit lonely, a little bit lost. Dean just can’t deal with that right now, he can’t. He lets the door slam closed behind him and walks away, the key sitting heavy in his pocket.

On the way down in the elevator, Dean swipes open his phone and shoots off a message to Sam. Thankfully, Sam’s on a similar rotation as him and Cas, he _should_ be off work tonight. So long as he’s not already tied up with Jessica (and doesn’t _that_ thought make Dean cringe with unwanted imagery, considering what he’s been up to lately himself), he’ll probably be into hanging out with Dean. Hopefully. 

Even though they still live together (hey, the city is expensive), both of them have their own lives, and Sam and Jess are planning a wedding. That doesn’t always leave a ton of extra time to just hang out and be brothers. In fact, Dean’s pretty sure it’s been over a week since he and Sam shared more than a cup of coffee for a meal or exchanged any words beyond bleary good mornings. Maybe _that’s_ why he’s all off-kilter and weird. Yea, that must be it. Dean just needs some family time to relax and unwind, bounce a few things off of Sam’s big brain and make fun of his hair. 

By the time he’s stepping out the front door of Castiel’s apartment complex, the wind cold and sharp as it whips and stings at his face, Dean’s already feeling moderately better. The fresh air helps, too, and he sucks it in, drives home with the windows down despite the cold. 

As he’s pulling into the parking lot adjacent to his and Sam’s building, Dean’s phone buzzes. Throwing his Baby into park, Dean fishes in his pocket and swipes the text message open without pause. He’s inordinately relieved to see Sam’s reply relaying that he’s at Jess’ but wants to hang and suggesting they meet up at their usual haunt, the Roadhouse. The Roadhouse is a shitty dive bar just down the street from their apartment, but it’s owned by Station Eleven’s Captain, Ellen, and is a regular hub for off-duty fire, police, and EMS personnel for obvious reasons. 

In fact, a lot of the EMTs and firefighters that work for the city also take shifts waiting tables and working the bar there; it’s Ellen’s way of giving back to the community that can’t afford to pay them the living wage they deserve. No firefighter, EMT, or cop should have to work two to three jobs just to make rent and put food on the table, but such is the world they live in. Dean himself has been known to do the Hippy Hippy Shake behind the bar a time or two, but only when he’s desperate enough to be scrounging between couch cushions for spare change. Honestly, he’s got better things to do on his nights off, like drink or binge Dr. Sexy. Or hang out with Cas. 

Speaking of Cas, how the guy affords his kickass apartment on a medic’s salary, Dean will never understand. He has a working suspicion that Cas comes from money, that he has a trust fund or stocks or some other kind of inheritance or passive income Dean wouldn’t know anything about, but Cas doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t talk about his family at all, actually, ever. Dean’s known the guy for the better part of a decade and he always spends his holidays alone or with Dean and Sam, or previously, with Meg and her crew. 

The one thing all of them have in common? No parents to speak of, and whether it’s by unfortunate circumstance (like him and Sam) or choice (definitely Meg and presumably Cas), the outcome is the same. It’s part of why Dean never disliked Meg as much as he maybe should have… She was alright to Cas, and from what he knew, her life didn’t hand her the greatest shake, either. Still, Dean’s pretty fuckin’ glad she’s out of the picture, now. Not that she ever had a chance with Cas (or Dean wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with), but Dean’s complex emotions about Castiel are screwed up enough without adding _that_ into the mix. 

Those thoughts about Cas start to make him itchy again, so Dean shoves them away and refocuses on his excitement at getting to see Sam. With a renewed spring in his step, Dean runs up to their shared apartment on the second floor and quickly swaps clothes, runs a brush over his teeth, throws some gel in his hair. While looking in the mirror of their tiny bathroom, he can’t help but notice that there’s a trail of hickeys running down the side of his neck, towards his collar bone. Scowling at his reflection, Dean buttons up the front of his flannel a little further and it does the trick—bruises (mostly) hidden. The twinge in his ass when he sits isn’t so easily ignored, but at least no one can _see_ that. 

Despite the cold, Dean opts to walk the five or so blocks down the street to the bar. Parking’s a bitch outside the Roadhouse at this time of night, and Dean’s not keen on leaving his Baby on a busy street outside a rowdy bar in the bad part of town, anyway. Or maybe all of those things are excuses to avoid admitting to himself that he’s planning on getting so smashed he can barely walk, because apparently, that’s the only way _Cas_ is gonna stop popping into his goddamn head. 

Letting out a frustrated growl, Dean stomps a little heavier than necessary down the street, his breath puffing white into the cold night air. A few people eye him curiously or worriedly, giving him a wide berth as he passes, and he wonders what kind of angry expression he must be wearing to merit all that. 

Sighing in defeat, Dean rubs at his face and runs a hand through his hair, but that only makes him think about Cas doing the same thing in various, equally appealing ways. Traitor that it is, Dean’s dick twitches in his pants, and he directs his scowl down at his crotch with lackluster results. 

There’s a decent-sized crowd loitering outside the bar which isn’t surprising for a Saturday, and Dean catches sight of a few of his platoon members talking and laughing. Victor and Ash are hanging out near the door sharing a smoke, so Dean basically has to engage, even though small talk with his co-workers is pretty low on the list of things he wants to be doing right now. 

“Dean-o, haven’t seen you around in a few days,” Ash comments, the slight glaze in his eyes and the tang in the air suggesting that the smoke he’s puffing on is not a cigarette. When Ash offers it up, Dean hesitates but ultimately decides, _what the hell?_ He did come here to get fucked up. 

_No,_ he scolds himself. _You came for Sammy._

“Thanks,” he says anyway, taking a small puff and handing the joint off to Victor, who surprises Dean somewhat by partaking. Then again, Victor’s always been kind of a “rules are for when they benefit me,” sort of guy, so maybe it’s not surprising at all. Truthfully, Dean doesn’t really care.

“So what’s up?” Ash prods, jerking his head towards the door before accepting the joint back from Victor. “Saw your bro come in a few minutes ago. You guys up for a game later?” 

Now _that_ Dean can get behind. “Hell yes,” he replies enthusiastically. “For money, right?” 

“Ain’t no other kinda game here,” Ash says with a grin and a knowing nod. 

“Sure you can afford it, Winchester?” Victor teases. “I’ve seen those boots you drag your sorry ass to work in, they’ve sure seen better days. Maybe you should keep your money and buy some new ones, before you walk right out of them. Or are you saving up to finally buy Castiel that diamond engagement ring he’s always wanted? Let him make you an honest woman?” 

Dean just rolls his eyes, outwardly unfazed. The guys he works with teasing him relentlessly about his feelings for Cas is nothing new. The resulting sharp pang that stabs him in the heart and wraps icy tendrils around it to squeeze, however—that is. He’s not bothered, though, not really. His co-workers are at least decent enough to only bust his balls when Cas isn’t around, and Dean’s more grateful for that than he could ever say. On the other hand, he sure wishes he could get ten goddamn minutes without his brain being suckered and cornered and basically drop-kicked into thinking about _Cas_ all over again. _Fuck._

“Forget Cas, your mom rocked my world last night, maybe I’ll give that ring to her,” Dean shoots back airily. He can play this game in his sleep. Flashing his widest, most unbothered grin, Dean tips his head to the side and rocks some disastrous finger guns in Victor’s direction. 

“Someone rocked your world last night,” Ash comments. “Shit, it’s been years since I had even one hickey like that and you’ve got a whole fleet of ‘em.” He whistles, leaning away from the wall and into Dean’s space, trying to get a better look, but Dean bats him away and tugs his collar back into place. _Rookie move, dumbass,_ he tells himself, stumbling over his own feet towards the door to the bar.

“So I’ll catch you guys inside,” he replies evasively, purposefully ignoring Ash’s comment and the hollered complaints about “details” that follow Dean inside the Roadhouse as he closes the door. Thankfully, Ash’s bitching is lost in the din of the bustling bar, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief as he looks around. Sure, it’s dark and dirty with shitty lighting and a layer of stickiness on the floor that no amount of mopping is ever going to remove, but the Roadhouse is as much a second home to Dean as his station. 

Not just the place, but the people too. Mood already improving, Dean waves to several friends right off the bat, catching Ellen’s eye from where she’s standing behind the bar and getting a warm wave (and a hollered order to come talk to her before he leaves) in return. 

The walls of the Roadhouse are covered with police, fire, and EMS paraphernalia; patches, flags, photos of big local incidents and framed fallen firefighter’s gear. In the middle of the rear wall is a giant tribute to Bill, Ellen’s late husband and both the former city Fire Chief and the one who opened the Roadhouse with her, way back when. He died in a fire going on ten years ago now, when Dean was brand-new to the job. Dean wasn’t working the day that it happened, but like every firefighter in this town, he can recite the story like he was and like it was yesterday. 

As usual, Sam is seated in the booth right beneath Bill’s framed bunker jacket, leaving the booth across from him, the one under Bill’s picture and the hook that holds his helmet, open for Dean. 

Nodding in greeting, Dean shucks his jacket and slides onto the worn vinyl covering the bench seat easily, sighing with the kind of happiness that comes with being in one of his favorite places, with one of his favorite people. There’s a cold beer dripping condensation onto the table in front of him, matching the one sat opposite in front of Sam, and if Dean knows his brother the way he thinks he does, dinner will be along shortly. Best guess: rabbit food for Sam, red meat for him if he’s lucky. Sam hasn’t seen him enough this week to bitch about his diet, so there’s a good chance he’s just going to let Dean have what he wants tonight. 

Left upside down on the table, Dean’s phone buzzes, but he ignores it. 

“Hey,” Sam says, a big smile on his face that reminds Dean of home and family and everything that’s good with the world. Not that, under penalty of death, he’d ever admit that shit out loud. “So, what’s up with you?” 

“Same old,” Dean says with a sigh, and though there’s a million things he wants to blurt out, to ask Sam’s advice on, to just unload from his shoulders, none of them make it past his lips. Already halfway through his beer, Dean catches Ellen’s daughter (also a firefighter at Eleven), Jo’s eye and signals for a refill. On the table, his phone vibrates again.

“You… gonna get that?” 

“Nah,” Dean replies, shaking his head before reaching across the table and smacking Sam’s arm with the back of his hand. “What about you, how’s wedding planning?” 

“Dude,” Sam says, with a meaningful look and a long sip of his own beer. “I’ve never been happier to get a text from you. My eyes are crossing from looking at flowers and favors and _fabric_ samples all day. Do _you_ know the difference between crimson and claret? ‘Cause I do, now.”

“Uh, no, Sammy, my manhood is intact, thanks for asking.” Dean fiddles with the glass in his hand, smirking but softening when he sees the dopey expression on Sam’s face as he stares down into his glass. “All worth it, huh?” 

_Lovesick._ That is, without question, the only way to describe how Sam looks when he raises his eyes to meet Dean’s. He scoffs a little, maybe even blushes, and Dean feels genuinely happy and proud of him. “Yea,” Sam replies dreamily. “I get that it’s dumb, but you know, after the way we grew up, out on the road and without Mom… I dunno, Dean. This was something I always dreamed about, but I never thought I’d get.” His eyes flick somewhat anxiously between his beer and Dean’s face. “Stupid?” 

“Nah,” Dean reiterates, because he gets it, more than he can ever let on. Except, in his case, there’s no happily ever after. No obnoxious wedding planning, no flowers or favors or colors Dean secretly does know way more about than he’ll admit (claret is superior). All that’s ahead in Dean’s future is a bunch of really good sex for as long as it lasts and a few stolen moments Dean will (pathetically) carry with him and think about for the rest of his life once Cas has moved on. 

With impeccable timing—since Sam’s getting that look like he’s _way_ too intuitive about what Dean is thinking—Jo appears next to their table with an assortment of food and drink refills. As she sets her tray down on a collapsible stand, Dean’s phone vibrates again.

“Dude, pick that up,” Sam tells him as he shoots Dean a skeptical side-eye. “What, you avoiding someone? Accidentally give your number out to the dregs of last call and now suffering buyer’s remorse?” 

“Psh,” Jo interjects as she sets their beers down on the table before sliding a chicken-topped salad in front of Sam and a truly monstrous, onion-laden burger in front of Dean. _God bless Sammy,_ Dean thinks, rubbing his hands together with poorly-concealed glee. “Dean hasn’t been here in days,” Jo complains. “Whoever’s texting him ain’t someone he picked up at a bar.” She pauses and reconsiders. “Unless you’re cheating on us, is that it? You got something going with that flashy new place down the street? The one with the little umbrella drinks and the neon lights in the windows?”

To be fair, Dean _does_ like those fruity umbrella drinks, they friggin’ come with _pineapple_ and a cherry, but he’s sure as hell not admitting that to Ellen or Jo. And anyway, if he is having an affair, it’s the bar’s fault. It totally seduced him, all flirty and sexy with its Air Supply soundtrack and its clean floors. _Trampy bar_ , Dean thinks, accusatory.

“You’re high,” he scoffs back. “What, a man can’t take a few nights to himself? Take a bubble bath, get in touch with his feelings?” 

“Whatever, Dean,” Jo says with a shrug before turning to Sam. “I’m pretty sure he only puts up this act when he’s been hooking up with dudes and thinks we’re gonna judge him.” 

“I don’t care what you douchebags think of me,” Dean fires back around a half-chewed mouthful of burger that makes both Sam and Jo cringe.

“Right.” Jo rolls her eyes and tucks her serving tray under her arm. “The real mystery here is how you attract _anyone_ with manners like that. We’re all heathens here, but you are truly disgusting, Dean Winchester.” 

In response, Dean just grins toothily, food in his teeth and all. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he says with a wink as Jo ruffles his hair roughly and saunters away. For a minute or two, he continues munching his burger happily, still ignoring the buzzing of his phone. It’s only when Dean realizes that Sam is sitting stock still, staring him down from across the table that Dean pauses and puts what’s left of his nearly-demolished meal back on the plate. “What?” he asks. “Do I have sauce on my face?”

“Uh, yes,” Sam says flatly, his eyes narrowed, “but that’s not my issue.” 

“Okay,” Dean replies, wiping at his face inelegantly with the napkin that came wrapped around his silverware before shrugging and digging back in, speaking again around another giant bite. “What is your issue, Samantha?” 

“Cas,” Sam says slowly, deliberately, and Dean nearly chokes on his food. “Nice,” Sam adds as he recovers, swallowing and trying (failing) to look nonchalant. 

“What about Cas?”

“Well,” Sam says deliberately, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “I just watched you do a non-ironic spit take at the mention of his name, so why don’t you tell me?” Silence being the only defense Dean has left, he keeps his mouth shut, except to shove in the last bite of burger. “Fine,” Sam continues. “Then I guess I should tell you I talked to Cas about some groomsman stuff this morning and he said you guys ‘hung out’ last night and that you stayed over.” 

“Okay, first of all,” Dean replies, wiping his hands on his napkin and propping an elbow on the table so he can point an accusatory finger at his brother. “Were those actual air quotes? Because, seriously, don’t pick up Cas’ dumb habits. Bad enough I have to deal with it from him. Second, I don’t like what you’re implying. And third, me and Cas hang out all the time, so whatever ‘gotcha’ moment you think you’re pulling here, it ain’t gonna work.” Dean realizes way too late that he did air quotes himself and silently curses Castiel’s name. 

“Dean,” Sam says, wholly exasperated now and leaning forward over the table to emphasize his point. “I’m a _doctor,_ you idiot. I’m a trauma surgeon, my specialty is literally trauma. It’s my _job._ Do you really think there’s any bruise on any human on this planet that I can’t stage and identify from a passing glance?” 

Confused, Dean’s mouth drops open slightly before snapping closed again in horrifying realization. His hand flies to his neck reflexively, where he can feel that his shirt is open just a _smidge_ too wide. 

“Jo’s right, you know,” Sam continues conversationally, stabbing at his salad with a fork but not even pretending to eat. “This is exactly what you do when you’re on a Grindr kick. Disappear from the Roadhouse scene for a few days, sleep away from home, show up weirdly satisfied and think none of us can put two plus two together on why. Except—”

“Don’t do it, Sam,” Dean pleads, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

“I _know_ where you were last night, _all_ night,” he persists, undaunted. “And now—” Sam flips Dean’s phone over without asking, and sure enough, Dean can see without even looking very hard that there’s a string of text messages from the one and only angel in Dean’s life. Although, he’s starting to think _that_ name might be an ironic coincidence, since right now, he feels like Sam is about to uncover his deal with the devil. 

Frustrated, Dean throws his hands up in the air before crossing them over his chest defensively and saying nothing. “Dean,” Sam continues, puppy-dog eyes out in full force. “Dude, I’m happy for you! You know I’ve always thought you and Cas had a good thing. I dunno why you’re hiding it, everyone we know would be thrilled to hear you guys finally—”

“Just shut up, Sam,” Dean mutters miserably, fixing his gaze on the door at the other end of the room. “Seriously, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Deflated, Sam sits back and raises his hands in defeat. “You know what? Fine, Dean. I was trying to be supportive, but if that’s how you want to act—”

“It’s just a hookup,” Dean announces blandly, finally turning his gaze to meet his brother’s and hoping he’s at least semi-suppressing his shame. He shrugs. “Okay? You happy? Cas and I are hooking up, but we’re not… anything else, whatever else you thought you Nancy Drew-ed into a conclusion there.” 

To his credit, Sam looks genuinely confused, as if he’s never heard of the concept before. “But I thought—”

“Dude,” Dean groans. “Why are you doing this to me, man?” He slumps back against the booth and glares at Sam, irritated all over again, worse than when he left Cas’ apartment. There’s an itch crawling beneath his skin and something calling to him, something strong and unrelenting that he’s determined as fuck to ignore. Also being ignored are his previous thoughts about confiding in Sam, because right now being a bitter asshole just feels more satisfying. “You know I don’t do the chick-flick moment thing, alright? Just leave it.” 

There’s a long pause while Sam looks Dean up and down and considers the totality of whatever he’s projecting right now, but then he nods and raises his eyebrows as he sighs. “Sure, Dean,” he relents. “It’s your life.” It’s quiet again while Sam pokes at his untouched salad and then, “One thing. Just one, and then I’ll shut it, I swear.” Reluctantly, Dean makes the “proceed” motion and waits, but Sam hesitates, staring down at his plate for so long that Dean almost checks to see if he fell asleep. “I wasn’t kidding, earlier,” he says finally.

“About what?” 

Sam looks up. “About how good it feels to have someone like Jess in my life. About how I never really thought I would. You shouldn’t give up on yourself, Dean. You shouldn’t shut Cas out because you think… whatever it is you think.” 

Dean just snorts and averts his eyes. “Alright, well, thank you for the pillow-talk,” he mutters, picking up his phone and scrolling absently without even realizing what he’s done. 

_Cas: I hope you’re having a nice night with Sam_

_Cas: Just so you know, I spoke to him earlier and said you were here, perhaps ensure your bruises are covered._

Despite the discomfort twisting inside him, Dean snorts again and has to bite back a smile. Guess he should’ve checked his messages, after all. Considering that, he keeps reading, but the next few lines wipe the happy look right off of his face. 

_Cas: I’m going to have dinner with Meg later._

_Cas: As friends, of course, there is no ambiguity in our relationship status. I just wanted to tell you, in advance of it getting back to you some other way._

Whatever good mood Dean had grappled with and nearly recovered dissipates immediately, replaced with something sour and vexatious that churns his stomach and makes his skin feel like it’s too tight. He shoves his phone into his pocket without replying and slides out of the booth, heading directly for the bar. Sam will follow, Dean knows him well enough to be sure that he won’t take any of this personally, but before Dean can get on with the night, he needs a _lot_ more liquor dulling his system. 

That, at least, he can take care of. That, he has control of, and he plans to exercise that control to the fullest extent. 

In his pocket, his phone is finally silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Dean goes off the deep end, Cas is there to haul him back to shore. A much-needed discussion, and _some_ resolution of issues, even though they still have a long way to go.
> 
> *This Dean-dropping miscommunication/Cas pulling away to protect himself WILL be resolved next time, it's a temporary arc they need to work through--this is not me laying groundwork to do this the whole fic. We'll go back to sexy and weirdly fluffy shortly. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas gets some help from an old friend, Dean and Cas take the long way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to the wonderful and super sexy @Malmuses and the amazing and terribly tolerant of my bullshit @coinofstone for not just the editing and beta but the emotional support & cheerleading. <3
> 
> Chapter warnings (spoilers):  
> There is really good and comforting resolution in here, but there is some pain first! Specifics:  
> -Cas POV introspection of Meg and their relationship, references to their past when they meet up. No current flirting/suggestion of getting back together. Both of them have moved on, they're just friends, Meg is not a bad guy.  
> -Major drop for Dean, avoidance of Cas, unresolved issues between them that may be stressful to read but DO get straightened out by the chapter's end.  
> -alcohol as a coping mechanism  
> -Jealousy: Dean makes Cas think he's hooking up with another girl. They are NOT exclusive (at that time) but also Dean IS NOT REALLY DOING IT and he comes clean to Cas by the chapter's end. Do not X-out the tab in anger at the untagged infidelity, it doesn't exist!  
> Sex tags: spanking, paddling, Dean in panties, bottom Cas, topping from the bottom, subspace, barebacking, somewhat sweet sex. Cas frames part of their scene at the end as a "punishment" because he knows Dean needs it and it's a safe way to help him "punish" himself for a perceived transgression. Cas is not really angry at Dean, this is not a "real" punishment. (I think that is clear in the story, but just making sure).

Castiel is unsettled. From the moment Dean came out of the playroom, it was obvious that something was _off._ The way Dean carried himself, the way he averted his eyes, the way he worked extra hard to act casual and like everything he was doing was normal and fine. The way he completely ignored a _sandwich._ Having been around this block many, many times before, it all screamed of exactly one thing, a thing that normally Castiel would rush to correct, would never let a sub out of his sight until he was _sure_ they weren’t experiencing.

With Dean, things are complicated. There are lines in the sand, there are boundaries he has to respect and refrain from crossing, for both his own sake and Dean’s. And Dean _can_ be moody, Castiel’s been on the receiving end of an unearned tongue-lashing from him more than once, so he certainly knows that firsthand. Dean has moments where he withdraws into himself, where the _last_ thing he wants is for other people to _see_ him, to know that he’s feeling weak and vulnerable. It’s all an extremely fine line to walk when mixing their existing friendship with domination and submission, and Castiel only wants to be cautious. 

So he hesitates, in a way he normally never would, in a way he never has before with a sub. In the end, it comes down to the way Dean softens after he pulls on his boots, the way he accepts the house key and pulls Castiel into a hug that’s obviously for Castiel’s benefit and not his own. He seems more like himself in that moment, and Castiel’s worries lessen significantly. 

If Dean were dropping, surely he wouldn’t have bothered with such things? Or even been _capable_ of them? No, in Castiel’s experience, this is very much a Dean who is just being _Dean,_ difficult as that may be for him to understand. At the end of the day, he’s not Dean’s person. He’s not Dean’s partner or boyfriend, and he can’t expect Dean to lean on him that way, or even as a friend, if that’s not what Dean wants. 

This morning, Castiel had been overcome with joy and affection for his sub, when he’d popped into the playroom and seen him sleeping with his collar on. He’d only intended to slip in and out, to gather the used equipment and take it out to be cleaned, something productive to do while sleep eluded him. But seeing Dean lying there, so beautiful and absent of any stress or worry on his face, just _knowing_ that he chose to go to sleep still marked as _Castiel’s,_ it was too alluring to resist. Dean’s collar—it was permission to touch Dean, an outward sign that Dean was happy with him, with what they’re doing, that he wanted more, and it thrilled Castiel to see. He couldn’t help but show Dean how much, kissing and nuzzling at the collar, wishing he could put into words how much it meant to him that Dean kept it on. 

The collar _is_ their line in the sand, and as much as it being on is a green light, it being off is red. Dean came out of the room this afternoon without his collar on, and that’s a boundary Castiel needs to respect. 

Which is why Castiel let him go. 

It weighs on him, though. Enough that Castiel is distracted from going through the motions of cleaning and putting the playroom back together, of restocking the mini-fridge and changing the sheets (that still smell like Dean, not that Castiel stops to shove his face into the wadded up bundle in his arms). Enough that he winds up slumped listlessly on the couch in his living room, soiled bedding piled up next to him, and pulling up a number in his phone without really considering _why_ he wants to do so, or if it’s a good idea.

Before he can either lose his nerve or think better of his choices, Castiel shoots off a text message and then waits, tossing his phone from hand to hand impatiently. Perhaps his contact won’t even reply, or she’ll tell him to fuck off, or she’ll be busy, or—

_Ding._

_Meg: Sure thing, Clarence. Meet me at our favorite place in an hour?_

The breath Castiel sucks in is shaky, haggard. He feels worn to the bone and has no idea why. The _last_ thing he wants to do is get dressed, go out, and interact with other people like a normal human being. The very thought has Castiel feeling exhausted. Still, he forces himself to reply in the affirmative to Meg’s message and to drag himself up off of the couch. After all, he’s the one who contacted her, and he’s certainly done enough yanking her chain around (no pun intended) for one lifetime. 

As the water for his shower heats up, Castiel contemplates his phone once again, firing off a text message to Dean before he gets in. While he understands that Dean wants his space and probably isn’t keen on hearing from him so soon, Castiel’s taking no chances. The fact is, the emergency services community is gossipy and incestuous. Someone seeing him and Meg out together again would get whispered through the grapevine, eventually filtering its way to Dean, the story distorted and dangerous. There’s nothing to hide here, and Castiel should act like it.

Unfortunately, his texting skills leave something to be desired, and Castiel’s roundabout way of trying to casually start a conversation with Dean goes completely unanswered. Either Dean isn’t paying attention to his phone, or he’s not impressed. As the bathroom becomes increasingly steamy, Castiel shucks his clothing and stands in front of the mirror naked and staring down at the one-sided string of messages filling his screen. Frustrated, he puts his phone down and glances up, his eyes meeting their reflections in the mirror, looking even more tired and sad than Castiel feels. 

He lets his gaze drift, scanning down his own body and noting with some disappointment that there aren’t any bruises or scratch marks. No indentations from Dean’s teeth or fingers, no physical sign of _anything_ that Castiel can look at and relish knowing it’s the equivalent of body graffiti that says: _Dean was here._

Almost incidentally, that thought drags him back to Dean himself, and the line of bruises marking the side of his neck from Castiel’s perhaps overzealous reaction to Dean leaving his collar on overnight. _That_ reminds him of what he’d told Sam when the younger Winchester had texted earlier about tuxedo fittings and plans for the bachelor party, a conversation he’d wholly intended on relaying to Dean over lunch. 

But Dean had left and Castiel had been thrown off-kilter, and it had all slipped his mind. _Damn._ Hurriedly, Castiel picks up his phone and fires off yet another message to Dean about exactly that, encouraging him to keep his bruises hidden and just hoping he’s in time to synchronize their stories. A quick glance at the time tells him that he’s probably too late, so all he can do is hope that Dean isn’t too pissed, that he didn’t inadvertently out them to Dean’s brother and one of Castiel’s own best friends. 

When Dean doesn’t reply again, Castiel gives up trying to be diplomatic and explains plainly about his plans with Meg. It shouldn’t bother Dean, anyway, since he and Castiel have had several very frank conversations about Meg (stretching back to when she was still his sub), and Dean certainly knows that their relationship is long dead and buried. In that same vein, Castiel feels _sure_ that Dean couldn’t possibly be under any delusion that there’s anything between him and Meg besides friendship (and a tentative one at that), not after the reason and the way things ended. 

With a disappointed shake of his head, Castiel puts his phone down and gets into the shower. He’s resigned to the fact that Dean isn’t going to answer him tonight, but also uneasy and still wishing he would. If Dean needs space, though, Castiel will give him it. He’s already pushed the limits Dean set earlier with all of the texting, the least he can do is wait to contact Dean again until the man is ready to reciprocate.

 _The ball is in your court, Dean,_ Castiel thinks to himself as he wets his hair and soaps himself up, trying his best not to worry that Dean’s simply taken his ball and gone home. 

After an extended, thirty-minute affair in the shower where Castiel mostly stands and stares blankly at the white tile wall, he steps out and shaves off the last two days of stubble. Freshly smooth, he wrangles his hair into something semi-styled and presentable, and throws on some cologne. At least he’ll look and smell decent, even if his attitude and mood don’t match. 

It takes longer to pick out an outfit, Castiel rejecting a lot of his staples because they’re things Meg has said at one point or another that she liked seeing him in. No need to add fuel to the fire or insult to injury, whatever the correct saying there would be, Castiel can’t be bothered to think too much about it. 

In the end, he goes simple: black jeans and his black duty boots, a gray Henley and his black leather jacket. This vibe definitely does match his gloomy disposition, and that gives Castiel a perverse satisfaction. The debate between his car and a ride-sharing service takes less than thirty seconds and is a no-brainer, the easiest decision of the night, by far—Uber. Castiel’s going to need a drink or seven for what he’s about to do, and while his car may be a piece of junk (at least according to Dean) he’s not keen on leaving it halfway across town overnight when he inevitably can’t drive it home. 

The city feels stark and bleak tonight, the biting cold that’s settled in over the past twenty-four hours not helping matters in the least. It’s almost too chilly for a thin shirt and leather jacket, but Castiel’s uber is already waiting when he steps outside, so despite the wind cutting straight through his clothes to his skin, Castiel forges on. 

On the way across town to the sushi restaurant he and Meg used to frequent on a twice-weekly basis—due to its proximity to both Meg’s apartment and the EMS station Castiel works out of—Castiel finds himself melancholy. This is his ambulance’s first due area, so he passes place after place filled with memories of calls and patients past. A fire scene where a former diner suffered an arson event and the sidewalk outside where Castiel spent nearly ten straight hours straight doing fire rehab, cycling firefighters in and out of the blaze and tending to minor injuries. 

There’s the cross-street where he had his first major pediatric trauma—a six-year-old hit by a car while riding her bike—terrifying, but the child lived, so there’s that. A subsidized housing highrise that towers above them at a stoplight; Castiel’s been here more times than he can count. Multiple elderly men with heart failure, a frequent flyer who goes into diabetic shock on the regular (both high and low blood sugars, she’s not picky), chronic bronchitis requiring CPAP on the third floor, a vet with a below-knee amputation who never learned to use his prosthetic properly and falls constantly on the first.

So many dwellings and businesses they pass evoke similar memories, both public and private spaces Castiel’s all too familiar with for all the wrong reasons. He can see the ghosts of the past even now, see each of those patients being carried outside on stretchers and in stair chairs, watch himself tending to the wounded and the gravely ill, some of whom will live to see another day because of him—and some of who won’t. Despite the streets being empty and cold, in Castiel’s mind the red lights flicker, casting the nearby buildings in an eerie glow, a warning and a reminder. 

None of this is unfamiliar to Castiel, the ghosts following him wherever he goes. They’re always there, a few steps behind him and lurking in the back of his mind. People he couldn’t save, patients he worries he didn’t do enough for, in one way or another. It’s something he’s become accustomed to, something he’s accepted that he’ll always carry with him. Although normally, they don’t weigh quite as heavily as this.

By the time the Uber driver pulls up in front of the restaurant, Castiel’s pushed those thoughts aside, at least somewhat. Ironically, his work woes aren’t things he needs to hide from Meg either, she’s a nurse at Central and she certainly understands. But Castiel’s work trauma is not what called him here, not the focus of their meeting tonight. 

“We’re _here,”_ the Uber driver snaps impatiently, and only then does Castiel realize that they’ve probably been parked for several minutes. 

Embarrassed, he mumbles a “thank you” to the man, who grunts and probably annihilates Castiel’s star rating for being as anti-social and oblivious as they come, but he can’t do much about that now. Stepping back out into the cold, Castiel shivers and regrets the leather against his skin. 

The restaurant is fancier than he would have chosen for tonight, and Castiel nearly grimaces at the heaviness of the front doors, the sophistication emanating from the place compared to his usual haunts. This is Meg’s purview, really, but she’s doing him a favor so he’ll deal. The atmosphere inside is subdued; candlelight on the tables as the primary illumination, deep shadows around booths that give the illusion of privacy, and a low, respectful din of patrons socializing politely while eating. 

To be fair, it’s a relaxing sort of place, and Castiel does feel some of the stress sliding off of his shoulders as he steps inside and gives Meg’s name. Or perhaps that’s just the nostalgia setting in, reminding him of all the nights they spent here together in the past. Either way, Castiel can admit that this wasn’t a _bad_ choice for a place to meet and talk about the particular things on his mind.

“Right this way,” the hostess tells him with a charming smile, and Castiel follows her slim figure, bouncing ponytail and high-heeled feet as they turn and lead him into the depths of the restaurant. It’s plenty warm in here, so he loses the jacket and drapes it over his arm, ignoring the glances of several women and at least one man as he moves past the various tables. Meg is seated all the way in the back, at a table that—once upon a time—even Castiel might have referred to as “theirs.” 

“Clarence,” Meg says warmly, though her grin is smug as she rises from her side of the booth to greet him. Somewhat stiffly, Castiel allows her to draw him into a hug and to kiss his cheek, because that’s just Meg, he’d be shocked if she didn’t invade his space and get overly personal. Even after everything they’ve been through, there’s no changing Meg. She’s unapologetically herself and exactly who she’s always been, and Castiel can’t fault her for that. “To what do I owe the pleasure? And I don’t just mean those kickass arms you have on display, there.”

“Meg,” Castiel replies easily and with a small smile, sliding into the booth across from his old friend and accepting the menu from the hostess, who looks somewhat disappointed at their interactions. If only she knew. Castiel watches her go, in some ways almost resentful that he isn’t remotely interested in flirting or taking her on a date—it would be _nice_ to be “normal”, for once. It must be _so_ blissful to be able to feel a romantic or sexual spark upon meeting someone, to not have to create a connection just to have sex or to slip into his role as a Dom. To fall in love, or at least to _grow_ to love someone in a predictable way… it must be nice. 

To distract himself from his own thoughts, Castiel immediately turns to sipping on the glass of ice water in front of him, but under Meg’s piercing gaze, he’s a mouse in the tiger cage. Outside the bedroom, no one ever would have guessed their dynamic, not when they were actively involved with each other and definitely not now. 

Back then, Castiel got off on it—thought it was hilarious that people assumed Meg had him under her thumb, that people thought he was quiet and awkward and mousey. Their friends would joke and Meg would smirk and Castiel would shrug and sip his drink knowing that Meg’s provocative hip-sitting was only because she had as-yet unscabbed whip marks on her ass that Castiel had put there. 

Raising his eyes to meet Meg’s twinkling brown ones now, Castiel _almost_ misses when things were as easy as that. He definitely misses the feeling of having the upper hand that comes along with _not_ being the unfortunate moron who fell in love with the one person he definitely can’t have. 

But Meg, easy as it might have been to get his needs met with her without all that messy intimacy, doesn’t hold the same allure to him, not anymore. Even aesthetically, the idea of tying her up, dripping wax all over her body and then stepping back to admire his work feels lackluster and uninspiring. It’s not just Castiel’s emotions that are tied up with Dean—it’s _everything,_ all of his needs, every one. 

Reaching across the table, Meg pokes his bicep with a manicured finger, playful but uncharacteristically serious as she persists in coaxing him to share. “I know that face, Castiel. And I didn’t really think you called me here because you missed me. You know, you break a girl’s heart, that’s one thing. You break her Saturday night plans and don’t deliver, I might just have to kill you.” 

Without missing a beat, Meg lifts a hand and catches the attention of their server, ordering drinks for both of them and nailing Castiel’s usual of a double ten-year whiskey, two rocks. He smiles at her gratefully before sighing and sitting back, tacking on a few appetizer orders and sushi rolls, because if he’s doing this, it’s not going to be on an empty stomach. Said stomach twists a little as he thinks about the two abandoned sandwiches still waiting on his countertop. Castiel hadn’t been able to muscle up the strength to put them away. 

“So?” Meg prompts, once the server is gone, resting her chin on the back of her hand with interest.

Castiel nods and takes a deep breath, struggling with where to begin. “The truth is—and I realize that this is extremely awkward and unfair of me—”

“But that’s not stopping you.” Meg winks to soften the barb, so Castiel continues.

“—I was hoping you could give me some, well, pointers, I suppose,” he says hesitantly. Meg’s eyes narrow in confusion, and her lips part (undoubtedly to sass him), but Castiel cuts her off before she’s able to get another word out. “I need to know what I could have done to make things better for you, emotionally, when I was your Dom. Or, on the flip side, if there’s anything you wish that you would have done to create better boundaries while still ensuring that your needs were met with me. I’m…” Castiel lets a small growling noise escape from his mouth and runs a frustrated hand through his hair before throwing it up into the air and letting it land on his thigh. “I’m floundering.” 

There’s silence from across the table, and Castiel can’t bear to rip his eyes away from the abruptly extremely fascinating Swedish Ivy plant that is for some reason placed between their booth and the one next to it on Meg’s side. He’s _just_ about to call this whole night off, dub it a failure—it’s too much to ask of Meg, it’s unfair that he did so in the first place—when Meg finally speaks.

“Are you telling me that the Tin Man finally got the Wizard to give him a heart? Seriously? _The_ unfeeling Castiel Novak, Mr. ‘I Don’t _Do_ Love, Meg,’ has fallen prey to Cupid’s arrow? Oh, this is too good.” 

Struggling not to roll his eyes, Castiel drags them back to his dinner companion and scowls, especially when he sees the amused expression on her face. “I don’t know that I’d call myself _unfeeling,”_ he protests.

“I would,” Meg replies quickly.

“I feel things _very_ strongly, in fact. It’s just that love has not traditionally been—”

“Yea, yea, spare me the sermon, Blue Eyes. You do remember who you’re talking to, hmm? I’m the original one-eyed chicklet in the Kingdom of the Blind, baby. You can’t fool me, so don’t even try. Who is it?” Meg sits back and folds her arms over her chest, tongue running across her teeth as she surveys Castiel with what can only be described as smug superiority. She raises her eyebrows, and waits. 

Miraculously, their server picks that moment to show up with their drinks, and Castiel buys time by savoring several long sips, but Meg isn’t remotely put off. She tastes her own drink—something mixed and fruity with an umbrella, Dean would love it—while continuing to stare him down, gaze relentless and knowing. Honestly, if Castiel ever had a mind to switch, he’d be curious on a purely scientific level what Meg as a Dom would be like, because he has to admit, she’s got the attitude down, when she wants. 

“It’s Dean,” Castiel says simply when he’s ready, figuring he owes Meg that much. To his surprise, she barely reacts, dropping back against the booth with her fingers tapping away on her chin.

“Huh,” is all she says. When Castiel raises his eyebrows in question, she just shrugs. “Makes sense.” When he just stares and blinks at her in disbelief, she raises her hands like, _what do you want me to say?_

“You can’t be serious. After everything you just mocked me for.”

“It’s relieving, really,” Meg tells him, somehow holding a straight face. “I mean, for starters, you’re obviously a big ‘mo, so that doesn’t actually reflect on me at all.” Castiel furrows his brow and opens his mouth to lecture her about the spectrum of sexuality but this time, Meg cuts him off. “Whatever, don’t give me the identity speech again, it was just a joke. No, that isn’t it. You’re going to hate hearing this, I can guarantee it.” 

“All I’m hearing so far is you making fun of me.”

Meg snorts and shrugs with one shoulder. “Fair.” She swirls her straw in her drink for a minute before nodding to herself. “If it was going to be anyone, it was always going to be Dean,” Meg says frankly before taking a long sip from the glass she’s still toying with. “We can pretend I only thought so because of how well I know you, but the truth is, you’re not subtle, Cas.” 

Castiel can only imagine that the furrow in his brow is getting deeper as he stares back at Meg in abject confusion. “You’ll have to explain this further to me at some point, because I certainly wasn’t aware that I had romantic feelings for Dean until very recently,” he says, and then drains his glass because this is a _lot_ more than he anticipated hearing. “On second thought, don’t.” 

Smirking as she puts her hands up in mock-surrender, Meg’s face softens a little. “Well, all of that aside, you know I care about you, Clarence. So yeah, I think I can help you out. No guarantees on outcome, though, and there’s no magic button you can press to keep those pesky romantic feelings separate. What I _can_ offer you is a shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen, and a big mouth that doesn’t know when to keep her thoughts to herself.” 

“Thank you, Meg,” Castiel says in relief. “That’s more than I deserve from you, I know that.” 

“Better believe it,” Meg retorts. “Although speaking of deserving better, I hope you know that you do, too. If Dean doesn’t feel the same way about you, you don’t _owe_ him to stick around for sex or submission, no matter what you promised him to start with. Cutting yourself open and bleeding the contents of your heart all over the floor—and not in the fun way—for someone who doesn’t appreciate it gets harder by the day. That is a thing that I learned the hard way.”

Castiel ducks his head and fiddles with his empty glass. “Dean is very deserving,” he says quietly, and Meg laughs a little in response, though the sound isn’t judgmental or cruel.

“Oh, angel, you got it bad.” 

He doesn’t deny it. There’s no reason to, now. The waitress comes with a tray full of food and puts each item down in front of them, but all of it suddenly looks gray and unappetizing to Castiel’s palate. The things that have been weighing on his shoulders aren’t all out there yet, and the worry and regret is starting to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

“Meg,” Castiel says tentatively, watching as she uses chopsticks to pop a California roll into her mouth and chews. “There’s more. Specifically, I think I may be falling short in giving Dean what he needs in aftercare. I’ve been leaving his side, denying myself certain affections for self-preservation purposes. Only after he seems to be fully recovered or has fallen asleep, of course, but I’m concerned that it’s not enough. I fear—”

“Psh,” Meg replies, her mouth still half-full. “You ain’t worried about him. You,” she jabs her chopsticks in Castiel’s direction, “are worried he’s gonna realize you’re head over heels in love with him if you show it too much.” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, relieved at being understood. “I am.” 

But Meg just shrugs. “You’re stupid,” she replies easily.

“Excuse me?”

“Cas,” she says, dropping the food that’s pinched in her utensils back onto the plate while she addresses him, patient but exasperated. “You have a frickin’ free pass. Trust me, _he_ will tell you if you’re doing too much. If you ask me—and you did,” she reminds him, scooping up some rice and inhaling it. “You’re way more likely to send him into drop doing what you’re doing, than you are to protect yourself in any kind of way that’s gonna matter. Running out on him early because you’re scared of your own feelings is bad frickin’ news, lovemuffin. Let me tell you, there were plenty of times it hurt like hell for me to sleep in your arms.” 

Meg swallows and stares down at her plate, refusing to make eye contact with him for the first time this evening and Castiel’s guilty conscience swells in his chest. Both for what he’s definitely done to Meg and what he’s potentially been doing to Dean. Before he can apologize (not that he thinks Meg will like that, either), she continues talking.

“But the thing is, Clarence, I’m smarter than you, and I’m definitely smarter than Ken-doll. I’ve been subbing since I was eighteen, I _know_ what I need to do to avoid drop. Does Dean? Would he tell you if what you’re doing wasn’t enough? I dunno, Cas, I’ve met the guy and I can’t say I have any confidence in his ability to own his vulnerability and to share his feelings with the class. Point being, yes, sleeping with you like we were lovers after you made it clear more than once that we would never be any such thing was hard, really hard. The best thing you did for me was to break things off when you did. But baby, _you’re_ the lover in this equation, and Dean is the one in need. What you’re doing is just selfish. If you can’t be what he _needs_ , you’ve gotta cut ties with him as a sub.”

Stunned, Castiel just sits there, digesting Meg’s words. They’re honest, brutally so, and it takes a minute of grappling with his own defense mechanisms to not fire back. She’s right, of course, and that is the hardest pill to swallow. Castiel has been going about this all wrong. He’s been too selfish, too caught up in _having_ Dean the only way he thought Dean would let him to acknowledge any of that, and now Dean is paying the price. _Jesus Christ,_ he’s been a fool, he’s put Dean in danger, he’s—

“Meg,” he says, voice as full of apology as he can muster at the moment. “I need to go, I need—”

“Thought you might say that,” she replies wryly, spearing a piece of chicken with her chopstick and waving it towards the door. “Go on, get out of here, you responsible, caring Dom, you. Do the right fucking thing, for once.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says earnestly as he stands and throws on his jacket. He steps away and then turns back, pulling out his wallet to throw several twenties down on the table. “I owe you, truly.”

“Uh, yeah,” Meg replies emphatically before softening again. “But Clarence, do call me if you need to, okay? Everything else aside, like I said, I care about you and I—well, no. I don’t care about Dean, but I care about _you_ and I don’t wish the guy any harm so, you know. Call me. I mean it.”

Backing up towards the door, Castiel barely avoids running into another table of diners as he nods and touches two fingers to his lips in a distant goodbye kiss. “Thank you!” On his way out of the restaurant Castiel briefly considers ordering an Uber, but the wait times are longer than he’d like. Now that he’s realized his error, he can’t stand to delay any longer than necessary to rectify it. Standing on the sidewalk, Castiel barely feels the wind cutting through his clothing anymore, fully focused on finding Dean and putting things right.

A quick scroll through the one-sided conversation they had earlier fills him with with even more dread. If Dean _is_ dropping, if his off-kilter behavior this afternoon is what Castiel fears and not just Dean being Dean, there is a zero percent chance his recent messages didn’t add fuel to that fire. Sad and ashamed, Castiel considers how he’d feel if he was on the edge and received similar messages, one of them about Castiel going out to meet his former sub, when Dean might already be feeling rejected. Drop isn’t logical or sensical, it’s _emotional,_ it’s hormonal.

 _How could he be so stupid? So short-sighted and self-involved._ Castiel curses himself and looks around, just on the off-chance that there’s a taxi nearby or a bus or anything else useful, like a bicycle he could steal, because fuck it, why not? There isn’t, and he just can’t risk waiting any longer. 

He runs.

Bolts, really, the soles of his heavy boots smacking loudly against the pavement as they propel him forward. Castiel doesn’t need a reply from Dean to know exactly where he and Sam are; there’s only one place they’d go and Castiel heads straight for it. 

The Roadhouse is nearly five miles from the restaurant where he left Meg, but thankfully, Castiel’s a regular runner and capable of hacking it. Regardless of the lack of give in his jeans, the way they chafe against his thighs as he sprints, Castiel doesn’t stop. Ignoring the way the sweat builds beneath the leather of his jacket in spite of the cold, Castiel doesn’t slow down.

Less than a block from the Roadhouse, he regains his senses and forces himself to rein it in. It wouldn’t do to show up like a tornado, exploding into a bar where everyone knows him and will certainly have questions about why he’s so desperate to find Dean. The last thing he wants to do is embarrass Dean or out their situation to the public as a whole, and running full-speed into the Roadhouse screaming Dean’s name would be a great way to announce definitively that there’s something fishy going on. 

The slowed-down remainder of his trek also allows him a minute to catch his breath and to formulate a plan as well; Castiel just needs to get Dean alone. He’ll ensure that Dean isn’t dropping and if he is, he’ll get him out of the bar, take him home, _make this right._ He’ll apologize, he’ll get on his knees if he has to, because Dean _trusted_ him, Dean put his sanity and safety in Castiel’s hands and Castiel failed. He fucked it up, he let Dean down. 

Nothing goes the way he plans.

Bursting inside the Roadhouse more excitedly than he intended too, Castiel spots Sam at the bar almost immediately. Dean isn’t beside him, or anywhere else to be seen for that matter, so Castiel bypasses the entire restaurant and heads for the restrooms, hoping to get lucky. There’s a couple making out in the corner by the sinks, but the stalls are otherwise unoccupied and Castiel doesn’t run into Dean on the way there or back. 

Growing concerned, he chews his lip and surveys the room again. The Roadhouse is busy—it is Saturday, after all—but it’s not so packed Castiel can’t be sure that he’s scanned the crowd sufficiently. Normally, he’d call this a wash, but after everything his eyes have been opened to tonight, he just can’t do that. At this point, it feels worth the potential risk to approach Sam, so that’s exactly what Castiel does. 

“Hey!” Sam exclaims in surprise when Castiel appears at his side and taps him on the arm. “Nice to see you, man, pull up a stool. Ellen’s making… What are you making, El?”

“Buttery Nipples,” Ellen declares with a wink, as she caps her cocktail shaker and makes it live up to its name. “You in, Cas? On me.”

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel replies stoically. “Ellen. And thank you, that’s very generous but no.” He turns his attention fully back to the younger Winchester, and leans in so that he can’t be overheard. “Actually, I’m looking for Dean. It’s—” he hesitates, unsure how to convey the gravity of the situation without oversharing Dean’s business. “Well, it’s somewhat of an urgent matter. Is he here? Did he go back to your apartment, by chance?” 

The sympathy that fills Sam’s eyes is out of place, and Castiel doesn’t like it one bit. “Uh, you just missed him, Cas,” he says carefully. “He headed out maybe twenty minutes ago.”

“Alright,” Castiel persists impatiently. “He’s not responding to my messages, should I just check your apartment? Or—”

“He left with a girl,” Sam interjects, not even trying to hide the apologetic note in his voice. “I’m sorry, Cas, I—” 

The shock that Dean would seek out a random hookup after the past twenty-four hours they shared together short-circuits Castiel’s wiring for a moment, but he shakes it off just as quickly. He and Dean have not promised exclusivity in their contract. In fact, they’d specifically decided against it, although Castiel had _thought_ they’d had a moment of mutual understanding that it would be a goal, something to work towards and consider seriously, if they were each able to meet each others’ needs. 

The reality that Dean doesn’t feel as if he’s doing that stings, although, that _is_ what he came to correct, isn’t it? This doesn’t change anything, he still needs to find Dean. 

“Could you message him, Sam? Please. I normally wouldn’t ask, and I wish I could explain to you why this is so important, but I’m afraid I’ve let Dean down enough for one day.” He turns on what Dean would undoubtedly refer to as “puppy dog eyes,” blinking innocently down at Sam and attempting to look _extra_ sad, because Dean always says that no one could say no to him when he looks like that.

“Jesus,” Sam replies. “Who taught you _that?_ Never mind,” he adds, holding up a hand. “Stupid question. Hang on.” Sam pulls his phone over from where it’s resting on the bar and taps out a message before pressing send. They wait, but nothing happens. Without having to be asked, Sam then calls Dean, putting his phone to his ear and raising an eyebrow at Castiel, who is immensely grateful. “Yea, Dean, it’s me,” Sam says after the disappointing sounds of Dean’s voicemail filter out through the tiny speaker, just barely making it to Castiel’s ears. _Damn._ “Give me a call back as soon as you get this, it’s important.” He hangs up and shoots Castiel an apologetic look. “Sorry, man. We could still have that beer?” 

Blowing out a stream of frustration from his lungs, Castiel runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “Any other night, I would be glad to, Sam. I know we haven’t had much time together lately,” Castiel says regretfully. “But I can’t—I _have_ to find Dean.”

“Cas, no offense, but he could be anywhere in the city by now, and Dean not answering his phone usually means he wants to be left alone. Or, alone with whoever he’s with,” Sam adds meaningfully, with an eye roll and a swig of his beer. But Castiel’s already halfway to the door by the time the bottle makes contact with the bartop again, Sam’s words going in one ear and out the other. 

“I’ll find a way,” he says, determined, more for his own benefit than Sam’s, since there’s no way Sam could hear him now, anyway. 

And Castiel tries, he does. He scours the whole damn city as best he can, well into the early hours of the morning. He starts and ends at Sam and Dean’s front door, knocking and listening for movement but coming up empty both times. Sam must have gone to his fiancée’s after the bar and Dean—Dean never came home. 

In between lurking somewhat creepily outside their apartment, Castiel checks all of Dean’s haunts: the fancy bar he thinks no one knows that he likes, a handful of all-night diners and restaurants, the donut place he often stops by on the way to work to pick up treats for his crew. 

Desperate, Castiel even drops by Station Fifteen _and_ Station Eleven, since occasionally, if his friends are working, Dean will wind up there to hang out or sleep off a bender. That happens more often if he goes out drinking or home with a hookup on the wrong side of town, but tonight Castiel is out of luck.

Dean is nowhere to be found. 

When his wristwatch shows nine a.m. and Castiel’s phone is still black and silent, his bottom sore from sitting on the shitty, trodden-down carpet lining the hallway outside Dean’s door, he begrudgingly calls it a night. 

Even as Castiel drags his feet down the stairs and patiently waits on the sidewalk for his Uber, his drooping eyelids still blink open in fierce determination, glancing around with waning hope that Dean will suddenly appear. His _car_ is in the parking lot, for God’s sake. He _has_ to come back sometime. But Castiel has to work tonight, and so does Dean, and he can’t very well do so on no sleep at all. Much as he may hate it, the reality is that Dean made himself inaccessible, and Castiel has done all he can do for now. Fixing things with Dean will just have to wait. 

With any luck, though, he’ll be able to at least speak to Dean when he’s sober, before work. Castiel reminds himself—when his brain is less fuzzy—to come up with some condensed version of the speech he was going to give when he found Dean in person, something Dean will _not_ hang up on him while he’s in the middle of blurting out. In his physically and mentally exhausted state, nothing comes to mind, but perhaps with rest.

Sad and disappointed, Castiel gets into his Uber and returns home. Walking into his apartment, his _last_ remaining hopes are dashed when Dean isn’t waiting for him inside. Numb, Castiel strips to his boxers and climbs into bed, barely remembering to set an alarm before allowing the creeping darkness to pull him under. 

***

There’s no answer on Dean’s phone when Castiel tries it before he goes into work. It rings this time, at least, and that’s an improvement over the “straight-to-voicemail” situation he was getting earlier. Or perhaps it isn’t, since that means Dean’s charged his phone, turned it back on, and is still ignoring Castiel. If he thought he couldn’t feel worse, he was wrong. 

Unfortunately for Castiel, his twenty-four hour EMS shift continues fueling the dark cloud hanging over his head. Call after call after call keeps him busy, and then there’s the charting and his regular chores and duties—all of it amounting to very little free time to do anything else. The few hours that he does manage to steal for himself are spent sleeping, urinating, or eating, and Castiel’s never felt like human needs are cursed more. 

At one point, he hears Station Fifteen go responding to an automatic fire alarm at a warehouse downtown, not in Castiel’s local. From the back of his rig where he’s sitting checking expiration dates on medications, Castiel turns up the volume dial on the radio and listens. Benny’s unmistakable voice puts the squad responding and on scene, but the crew sent in to clear the building is led by someone else. _Dean._

It’s difficult not to breathe a sigh of relief at being presented with evidence that his friend is alive and well, but it also hurts. This is definitive proof that he’s being ignored, and Castiel can’t quite figure out what to do with that. Now that the adrenaline that had ignited the flame of desperation and pushed him to his limits on Saturday (into Sunday) has died out, Castiel can’t be sure that forcing Dean into a confrontation is the right thing to do. 

_Surely_ if Dean had been dropping, he would have spun out by now. Since he hasn’t, Castiel can only assume that the situation, while regretful, isn’t entirely emergent, and while he’s loathe to make _more_ assumptions, he’s not positive what other choice Dean has left him. Bereft, Castiel spends any spare moment when he’s not focused on patient care or another task requiring his full attention wavering between the idea of showing up at Dean’s station after their shifts or leaving him alone completely and letting Dean come to him.

The decision is made for him when he gets a text message from Dean at 17:52, eight minutes before they both are set to go off duty. 

_Dean: sorry for blowing you off. Just need a little space. I’ll hit you up soon, cool?_

It _pains_ Castiel to accept that, but he’s sent message after message pleading with Dean to hear him out, to just give him five minutes of his time, either on the phone or face-to-face. He’s been clear that he needs to apologize, that he feels he’s made a mistake, but the details beyond that aren’t appropriate for a text message. The bottom line is, Dean isn’t interested in hearing what he has to say right now, and it would be invasive and disrespectful to keep pushing.

_Castiel: My offer and request both stand. Use your key anytime you like or feel up to seeing me, I am always here for you. I care about you very much, Dean._

It’s the best he can do, for now. 

Dean doesn’t call and he doesn’t use his key. Castiel works the next two nights, twelve hour shifts from six in the evening to six in the morning, and the reversal of his normal routine is jarring and frustrating. Those feelings are multiplied now, with his continuing worry about Dean and his own lack of an outlet to release them. 

While he does leave Dean alone as requested, Castiel is weak, and he can’t help checking in on the older Winchester via his brother at least once. Sam doesn’t seem at all surprised by his message, but he’s evasive and doesn’t really give Castiel a satisfying answer as to how Dean is doing, which leaves him wishing he hadn’t contacted him at all. Also, the text conversation following quickly turns to wedding favors, which are basically the last thing on earth Castiel wants to discuss and something he doubts he’d have an opinion on, even if this were his own wedding. 

_Tiny bottles of alcohol,_ he suggests, and apparently that’s the sort of helpful feedback Sam was looking for. All Castiel cares about is that it gets him out of any further interaction. 

On Wednesday morning, Castiel arrives home similarly blearly and burnt out, the same way he has the past three days prior. _I’m getting too old for this,_ Castiel thinks as he rides the elevator up to his floor, already half-asleep as he leans heavily on the mirrored wall and lets his head loll to the side. _Need to see about switching to dayshift permanently._

When the elevator dings open, Castiel yawns heavily before trudging to his door. At least he has a couple of days off now to recover and regain his bearings. While he’s still holding out hope that Dean will show up, even if it’s just to hang out, get drunk, and watch trashy TV, Castiel’s so damn tired he also feels relieved to just be able to pass out for as long as he wants. He’s _bone-_ tired, in every way a person can be worn-out, so much so that his brain is barely online to fit his key into the lock. 

Which is why, when he stumbles into his apartment and locks the door behind him, kicking off his shoes and wandering into the living room, his reaction to the scene that’s awaiting his arrival is perhaps somewhat less than ideal.

There, in the middle of the hardwood floor, wedged between Castiel’s wrought-iron and glass coffee table and the wide glass doors leading out to the balcony, kneels Dean. He’s naked, save for his collar and a gorgeous pair of matching green panties—complete with satin bows and lace panels—that, at _any_ other time, Castiel would have been unapologetically obsessed with getting to know on an intimate level. Right now, though, the sight only brings him heartbreak and a sense of near-blinding exhaustion. 

As Castiel stands frozen, Dean smirks down at the ground, his head only lowered just enough to give the illusion of submission while his fingers twist restlessly into each other at his back. If Castiel wasn’t looking for it, he might not have noticed, but he _is,_ he’s been waiting days to see Dean in person, to find out if his fears are justified. 

They are. Dean didn’t just _drop,_ he’s been dropping, he still is. His posture, the way he curls into himself but still leans just slightly in Castiel’s direction, his fidgeting, his facial expressions—it’s all so obvious and horrifying, because Castiel _did this to him_. If Dean weren’t already his best friend, he wouldn’t be as sure as he is, but this is _Dean,_ and he is still first and foremost, Castiel. 

Emotional drop. Castiel has never seen it, has never engaged with a sub who was prone to it, or who suffered from it during their time together. Emotional drop can last for days, weeks even, and the way to cure it sure isn’t orange juice and a massage, though those things don’t hurt. Constant contact, strong boundaries and routines, reassurance from a trusted dom—basically, everything Castiel failed to give Dean and hasn’t been allowed to even _try_ to make up for. 

Now, Dean’s reaching out in the only way he feels he can, which is surprising in a way that Castiel knows it shouldn’t be. Of course, Dean in a spiral would see his self-worth tied to being a sub. Of course, Dean would think the only way he could obtain the affection and validation he’s so desperately craving would be to submit, like this. And to be fair, he probably needs this end of things, too. But he needs something else first, and it’s time for Castiel to give it to him, whether Dean likes it or not, whether Castiel has the energy for it or not. He owes Dean so much more than that.

“Get up,” Castiel barks shortly. He strides over and makes it into Dean’s space just as he’s straightening up, the faint but sharp ghost of whiskey unmistakeable on Dean’s breath. “You’ve been drinking,” he says flatly.

“I’m not drunk,” Dean replies defensively, recovering quickly to add a sincere, “Sir,” that makes Castiel’s heart ache for how much Dean wants and needs him to be better than he’s been. Not that he’s likely even aware of Castiel’s failings. Knowing Dean, he’s surely blaming himself. 

Castiel clears his throat. “We don’t have rules about you not drinking prior to a scene, so you are not in trouble with me. For that.” 

Perhaps Dean is tipsier than he lets on, because he snorts and averts his gaze, leaving Castiel to raise a brow, grab him by the chin and force eye contact. “What was that?” 

It’s not unexpected when Dean breaks, twisting away from Castiel’s grasp like it burns, stumbling a few steps away to fist a hand in his hair and swear. “Shit. I shouldn’t have come here. I don’t know what I was thinking, Cas. I gotta—”

“Sit,” Castiel commands, and Dean, with desperation in his eyes, hesitates but then finds his way to Castiel’s couch and plops down. He slumps forward, crossing his arms over his body self-consciously, and Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever seen his friend look less like his overly-confident, proudly arrogant self. In response, Castiel sits on the coffee table just inches in front of him, close enough that their knees touch. He pulls the blanket from the back of the couch, draping it around Dean’s shoulders and encouraging him to pull it closed, if he wants to. He does.

“It’s Wednesday,” Castiel says casually.

“I know. I know, C— _S_ _ir._ I’m sorry for blowing you off, or whatever, I just—”

Castiel holds up a hand, and Dean’s mouth snaps closed. “Good boy. That was not commentary on your behavior, it was a reminder that we agree to a weekly discussion regarding our terms. Wednesday is the last time we did so. This week has been… challenging, to say the least, and I don’t think I can overstate the importance of this conversation.” Dean’s eyes dim slightly, but he nods, resigned. “Normally, I’d ask you to remove your collar, but I feel as if today that is not a good idea.” 

Dean just shrugs listlessly. “This whole thing is all about what you want, anyway,” he mutters, and while Castiel strongly suspected he felt that way—or at least, the drop was feeding him those negative thoughts—it’s difficult to hear spoken aloud. 

Instead of chastising Dean, Castiel reaches out to take his hand where it’s white-knuckled in the blanket. Thankfully, Dean lets him, though he keeps his eyes on the gas fireplace built into the far wall. 

“I’ve really let you down,” Castiel says quietly. “If you’re amenable, for this discussion, I’d like to share some things with you and then you can respond however you like. For the purposes of this conversation only, you may call me whatever you like, and that includes insults and derogatory names, if they represent how you feel. Dean,” Castiel says, using his free hand to touch Dean’s chin and feeling relieved when Dean’s glassy eyes flicker to meet his own. “When you first put that collar on, I believe that it made you feel free. Something changed, _I_ made a misstep here. I need to help you understand that none of this is your fault.” 

The set of Dean’s jaw twitches minutely, and he blinks against what Castiel would be willing to bet is a burning behind his eyes. “Dean, do you know that you’re in sub drop?” 

The lines in Dean’s forehead and in between his eyes deepen, and Dean looks adorably confused. He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again, apparently unsure, but Castiel just waits patiently. “I don’t… How is that even possible? We scened like, three days ago. I thought—”

“This is happening because of me,” Castiel says bluntly. I should have recognized that you were struggling on Sunday morning. I should never have let you leave. Trust that all I wanted was to respect your boundaries and the limits of both of our relationships, but that is _not_ an excuse. I should have known better. I should have erred on the side of caution. I didn’t meet your emotional needs as my submissive, and now you feel…” 

Castiel narrows his eyes and regards Dean carefully. It would be immensely damaging to Dean for Castiel to project another incorrect assumption his way. However, knowing Dean the way that he does, the last thing the headstrong man will want to do is give voice to his perceived weaknesses himself. So Castiel _must_ do it for him, must hit the nail on the head so that Dean can begin to process that he’s not broken and that he _can_ feel better, that Castiel can be relied upon to help him do exactly that. 

“Rejected,” he finally says, squeezing Dean’s hand reassuringly. “Unworthy, perhaps. Like your value is tied up in your submission, and not who you are as a person. That those things are mutually exclusive, when they never were. You’re irritated and cranky, everything in your life feels ten times worse and more difficult to handle than usual. You are worried that you’re a burden to me, that you ask too much, that I feel trapped and possibly even tricked into showing you affection.”

As Castiel finishes speaking, Dean’s face transforms into an expression of pure _grief,_ a single tear spilling out of his right eye and rolling down his cheek. Castiel wastes no time—he surges forward, climbs into Dean’s lap and frames his face with both hands. “Are you my sub, Dean?” he demands. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Dean chokes out, nodding against Castiel’s palms. “Yes, Sir.”

“I have one task for you, just one, and I need you to perform it perfectly, do you understand?” Dean’s eyes slipped closed but he nods, and Castiel is so proud, so in awe of Dean, considering their circumstances. “You are to tell me honestly and clearly, the truth about what you _need_ from me as a Dom, Dean. I _know_ there is something that you have been afraid to ask for, but I am telling you, I _want_ to give it to you. You _deserve it,_ Dean. Whatever you’ve been resisting giving voice to, you say it now. _Let_ me give you what you need, Dean. That is an order from your Dom. Do you understand?” 

Sniffling and inhaling around a swallowed sob, Dean nods again as the tears spill freely, making beautiful wet tracks down his lovely face and getting Castiel’s fingers damp. Dean is so _soft,_ so vulnerable, and Castiel _aches_ to be this close to him, to have him in his hands, so damaged and still so perfect. If it wouldn’t be totally inappropriate to what he’s trying to accomplish, he’d lick Dean’s tears from his face and take him right here, just like this. Show him exactly how much he’s loved and cherished.

“It’s just,” Dean starts and stops, letting his eyes flutter shut, lashes dark against his freckled skin. “You don’t. You say that, but you don’t want this.” 

Castiel shifts back on his heels, just enough to let go of Dean’s face and grab his wrists instead, bringing them together between their chests. “Dean,” he says patiently. “Your thoughts are corrupted by the drop you’re experiencing, so I’ll forgive you this once for telling me what I do and don’t want. I will promise you this, _if_ whatever you ask for is something I truly cannot do, I will be honest with you. This is a two-way street.” After a brief pause, Castiel borrows from Meg and sends up a silent prayer of thanks to her for the assist. “I’m not new to this. I _know_ how to ensure that my own needs are met. Do you trust me?” 

“Yes,” Dean hisses through gritted teeth, eyes pinched closed like he’s fighting some great, internal battle, and this is Dean, so that may not be far off. He takes a deep breath and blows it out before opening his eyes and visibly steeling himself. “Cas,” he says. “Everything else you do for aftercare is great. But—I need you to _stay._ With me.” 

“The night?” Castiel replies quickly, unable to believe his ears. _That_ is what Dean wants? What’s caused all this turmoil? Something Castiel was denying himself because he assumed it wasn’t something Dean wanted from him, that it was a toe across the line he needed to draw in the sand for both of them? “That—that’s all, are you sure? Be honest with me, Dean.” He levels a stern glare down his nose at Dean and those bright green eyes blink back as he nods.

“I swear, Cas. I know it’s needy and annoying and there’s gotta be a million other—”

Castiel cuts him off with a kiss, cupping Dean’s jaw and letting his tongue dart out to barely brush against the tip of Dean’s before pulling away, leaving him searching for more. “I am _so_ proud of you. I think I should just speak plainly, Dean. I was leaving for the night because I thought it’s what you would want. And other arbitrary reasons that mean nothing, now. I apologize for not being in tune with your needs and for not asking outright. It will _not_ happen again. Likewise, I expect that you’ll be equally honest with me in the future. If you feel upset or uncomfortable, if you need something that I’m not providing you, keeping in mind that _want_ is different than _need,_ and this is not an excuse to be a raging brat. Understand and agree?”

“Yes, Sir,” Dean replies, more bright and enthusiastic than Castiel’s seen him since last week. It’s relieving, and as he slides back off of Dean’s lap and onto the coffee table, he breathes out a sigh that reflects that. 

“So,” Castiel says conversationally, as he folds his hands in his lap. “Regarding our contract, is there anything else you’d like to discuss before I take you to bed and keep you there until we both have a non-negotiable elsewhere to be?” 

“Uh…” Clearing his throat, Dean looks a little sheepish, his cheeks pinkening slightly and his feet pressing up onto their toes against the floor. “Sam told me he saw you. At the bar.” Castiel raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment, allowing Dean to get whatever he needs to say out. “I know I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry for avoiding you, and for making it look like I was hooking up with someone else. I wasn’t,” Dean clarifies, “for whatever it’s worth. She was just an old friend and I thought…” He shrugs. “I knew there was a good chance Sam would talk to you, that you’d find out.”

“You thought you’d try and make me jealous,” Castiel surmises carefully. 

“I wanted to piss you off,” Dean adds helpfully, more lively and colorful by the second, and _god,_ it’s so wonderful to see. “I didn’t understand why I felt like stomped over horseshit, and you were with Meg and—I don’t know. I’m not gonna pretend I have a good reason.” 

“I see,” Castiel replies thoughtfully, dragging a finger slowly across his mouth and filing the ‘ _you were with Meg’_ comment away for later. “Well, as we’ve discussed, much of that was my own fault. I can’t blame you for your avoidance of me, based on your conflicting feelings. However, I certainly think a punishment is in order for the _girl._ For trying to bait and mislead your Dom, who cares about you and is trying his best to meet your needs.” 

“Guilty,” Dean admits with a shrug. “I didn’t do it, though.” Suddenly, his expression turns earnest as he stares into Castiel’s eyes. The intensity and insistence woven through his words are startling and Castiel is surprised by this particular reaction. “You believe me right?” 

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel replies. “This is a discussion we badly needed to have. I would hope you wouldn’t lie to me now, after all we’ve been through.”

“No,” Dean says firmly, shaking his head and letting the blanket droop off of his bare shoulders. It’s distracting and enticing, and Castiel’s sudden interest in focusing on it nearly distracts him from what Dean says next. _Nearly._ “Um, on that topic, I actually think I might have another… need.” 

“Oh, really?” Interested and wanting to show Dean that he’s taking his communication attempts seriously, Castiel tears his eyes away from golden skin and shifts them to Dean’s face. “Do tell.”

In his lap, Dean’s hands fiddle with each other, _he’s nervous._ “I was wondering what you thought about us maybe being exclusive, as far as both the BDSM and sex in general goes. I wasn’t going to say anything before, but it’s like...” Dean trails off and motions towards his head. “All these pieces just sort of clicked into place with the stuff you said. Some things I’ve been feeling over the past few days. I mean, I get it if you’re not into the idea, but for me, I think I need to be focused on you. I think that would help me, knowing that you’re—” He cuts himself off and stops, sitting up straight and blatantly searching for the right word to say next while Castiel’s heart thumps excitedly in his chest. Finally, Dean says, “That _I_ belong to you, just you. Does that… does that sound stupid?” 

Struggling to control his voice and keep it from either shaking or letting on how entirely thrilled he is, Castiel nods before he speaks. “You know that I don’t seek out random sexual encounters.” Dean nods in return. “And that I require an emotional connection to dominate someone. You are the only person I’m interested in doing this with right now, Dean. I’m…” Castiel trails off, not knowing whether he’s taking things a step too far but then thinking, _to hell with it, Dean did say he needs this._ “I’m thrilled that you want to be exclusive. I’m thrilled you want to be mine.” 

The smile Castiel’s rewarded with makes the risk worth it ten-fold. “Great,” Dean tells him. “Damn. That’s great, Cas. Oh, um. So, since we’re doing that, do you have any interest in revisiting the whole condom thing?” Dean does his best to sound indifferent and nonchalant to the idea, but his tone betrays him and it’s Castiel’s turn to smile.

“Very much so,” he replies. “I was tested a few months after Meg and I ended things and I haven’t been with anyone but you since. I have copies of my paperwork and can show you them, if you like.” 

Dean’s eyes widen and he waves Castiel off. “Yea, no, that’s not necessary dude, I trust you. Um, I haven’t been with anyone since the last time I was tested, either. After I broke up with that stripper, for obvious reasons. I definitely don’t have the papers but I’m sure I can call the PP and—”

“Unnecessary,” Castiel replies with amusement. “I trust you, as well. He pauses and tilts his head, narrowing his eyes a little at Dean. “Really? No one besides me in the past six months?”

“Didn’t realize you were keeping track of my conquests.” Dean snorts, evading the question, and Castiel lets him. “So… just like that? We can skip ‘em?” 

“I’m open to it if you are,” Castiel says with a punctuated lift of his shoulders. “We’ll amend the contract. I’m also going to include the basics of our aftercare plan going forward, though you should _not_ feel as if these are hard boundaries or limits. They’re just a guide, a visual so that you can see that I hear you, that I’m taking your words seriously.” 

Dean blushes and ducks his head. “Dunno if we need all that,” he mumbles, but Castiel ignores him, standing to make his way into the kitchen and retrieve both their kink lists and contract from one of the drawers. He sits back down on the coffee table, twisting to the side so that he can write after first handing Dean his own kink list and asking him to review it. “Change anything you feel differently about, for any reason,” he suggests and Dean nods. 

In the aftercare section of their contract, Castiel leaves an elaborate note about extended skin-to-skin, sleeping together in the same bed, staying overnight unless otherwise requested, and not leaving before Dean wakes up. All of those things should go a long way towards soothing Dean’s feelings of rejection and abandonment, of preventing this sort of emotional drop going forward. As an afterthought, Castiel adds a note about checking in with Dean (and Dean _answering)_ at least twice per day should they need to be apart for any length of time following an intense scene. 

All told, he feels good about the alterations and even better when Dean looks positively relieved at seeing them, too. It’s strange, the feeling curling inside his chest. All of this time he’s been avoiding doing the _one_ thing Dean really needed, to both of their detriment. Is it possible that things could be this simple? That they really _can_ both find solace and satisfaction within each other? 

On some level, Castiel still feels guilty and slightly worried. After all, Dean doesn’t _know_ what Castiel’s taking from this experience, how it’s different for him, because of his feelings. He supposes it doesn’t matter though. He should just consider himself lucky that he has a damn excuse to be open and affectionate and to touch and care for Dean in the way he’s so desperately wished he could. He’s been handed a free pass to basically live the boyfriend experience, and if there’s one thing Castiel knows, it’s that he’s not going to waste it this time.

***

“You have a choice, tonight,” Castiel tells Dean. His sub is bare again, save for his collar and the lovely panties, which Castiel admires again as he presses Dean’s shoulders down to make him sit on the playroom bed. They haven’t talked about them yet, but there’s a vibe flowing between them after their intense conversation, and Castiel’s instincts say to follow it through. The panties were Dean’s bait tactic, and much as Castiel’s a sucker for them, they’ll have to wait.

“I know that things have been difficult for you,” he says. “I don’t wish to push you too hard. In fact, if it were up to me, I might forgo the scene completely, take you to bed and hold you for the rest of the night. Feed you from my hand, perhaps draw you a bath and wash you, head to toe. I’m a _very_ through scrubber, and my bathtub is big enough for two, as you’ve seen.” 

As he talks, Castiel wanders over to the middle armoire, opening the cabinets to reveal a wide array of impact toys hanging from various hooks. When he turns around, Dean’s eyes are wide and wanting, his tongue darting out to lick his lips without thinking, and Castiel smirks. “So here’s the part where you make a choice. We could do that, all the things I just listed, but then, you don’t get to come. Not tonight, and perhaps not tomorrow.” 

Casually, Castiel pulls a paddle from its hook and turns it in his palm, making a show of examining it for integrity. “Or,” he says, “I can issue you your punishment, the one you earned for taunting me. For making me imagine you fucking some nameless whore who didn’t know what a find, what a _treasure_ she had lured to her bed.” He makes a concerted effort to keep his voice nonchalant and even, but his words definitely land with Dean, who struggles to keep still where he sits. 

“And then, after I’ve spanked you red and your ass is burning, I’ll turn you onto your back and ride you, hard and rough until I come all over your stomach. Perhaps I’ll even let you finish, inside me at that, as a reward for taking your consequence like the good, obedient sub I know you are.” Castiel bites his lip as he steps towards the bed, flipping the paddle teasingly in his hand. He crouches down in front of Dean and lays a gentle hand on his bare thigh. “How much would you like to be inside me, Dean? Impossibly tight, wet, hot. Could your girl from the bar give you what I can, Dean?” 

“No way.” Dean breathes, his eyelids heavy, and Castiel can see that he’s well on his way into subspace, despite the fact that he technically hasn’t made a decision yet. It raises his own confidence, knowing that he _was_ able to recognize Dean’s needs, even in a heated, stressful scenario. Because he’s being gentle tonight, he doesn’t backhand Dean for his lack of respect.

“No way…” he leads him, instead.

“Sir,” Dean adds quickly, lifting his chin to meet Castiel’s eyes as he stands. “Please, sir. I want my punishment. Thank you, sir,” he adds, without being asked, and Castiel has to fight not to melt into a puddle on the floor like a popsicle in the July sun. He threads fingers into Dean’s hair, leans down to kiss him, gentle but firm because he just _can’t_ resist, and hums. 

“Such a good boy,” he murmurs, allowing his lips to graze Dean’s temple as he stands. “I feel so very lucky.” Without warning, Castiel tightens his fingers and jerks Dean’s head around by the roots of his hair. “Color, Dean,” he demands, Dean’s head tilted back at an awkward angle, his mouth parted and his breath coming quick.

“Green, Sir,” Dean replies easily. 

“Stand up.” As he and Dean switch positions, Castiel quickly casts off his plan to have Dean count the strikes. It’s very clear to him that Dean wants to drift, to let Castiel control the scene completely and to reap the benefits. Despite the fact that this is technically a punishment, Dean _needs_ this, and Castiel’s happy for him to take it however he wishes tonight. Also, the idea of Dean hazy and lost to the pain, draped across his thighs, moaning and sighing and totally pliant while Castiel turns his ass red—well, it’s certainly no hardship for him to endure.

Dean crawls over his lap and into that very position with barely a verbal suggestion needed, presenting himself for Castiel’s hand without so much as a flinch of hesitation. This sort of ability and desire to slip into subspace so easily can be dangerous, and Castiel is on high alert for Dean’s reactions to the scene. Contrary to what he promised, this whole thing is more of a show to give Dean what he deserves, rather than to teach him a lesson. As “gone” as Dean already is, his ability to safeword isn’t something Castiel can take for granted. 

When they begin (" _Green, Sir”)_ , Dean responds beautifully. Castiel slips fingers underneath the waistband of Dean’s panties, tugging them down to mid-thigh and leaving them there. He warms up Dean’s ass cheeks with the palm of his hand before switching to the paddle when Dean grows used to the contact (read: stops squirming). The smack of leather-covered-wood on skin is satisfying to Castiel’s ear, as are Dean’s corresponding noises. With every strike, Dean cries out, wiggles sometimes, but never protests or complains. As time goes on ( _four, five, six),_ his cries turn to moans and his cock fills out completely against Castiel’s thigh, leaking precum so enthusiastically that it drips onto the floor. 

“Color, Dean,” Castiel asks, after strike number seven, and Dean just moans without a coherent reply. “Color, Dean,” Castiel repeats, reaching down to grab Dean’s chin and tug it upward so that he can see his eyes. 

“Green,” Dean murmurs dreamily, but Castiel’s seen enough to know that they’re done with the paddle for tonight. He hauls Dean up and into his lap, one leg bracketing either side of his thighs. Castiel cups Dean’s head and drags him down into a languid kiss, squeezing one of his reddened asscheeks roughly and making Dean moan into his mouth. It’s heavenly—Dean is loose and pliant, cock hard against Castiel’s abdomen, and Castiel would _love_ to throw him down on the bed, push his legs back and sink inside of him. 

That isn’t what he promised Dean, though, and Castiel is nothing if not a man of his word. With a grunt, he wraps arms around Dean’s waist and stands up, only long enough to turn and dump Dean down onto the bed. Bending to scoop his legs up there, too, Castiel urges Dean to scoot over as much as he can. To Dean’s credit, he complies without question or complaint, lying there naked and prone with heavily-lidded eyes that lazily track Castiel’s every movement. Satisfied and entirely aroused, Castiel strips in record time before retrieving the lube from his bedside table drawer and wasting no niceties when it comes to prepping himself.

Climbing up and over Dean, Castiel leans down to kiss him. He trails his lips across Dean’s cheek, whispering praise and dirty little things in his ear, enough to make Dean arch up against him and whine. He keeps things perfunctory, and as soon as his ass is anywhere close to ready, Castiel turns the lube on Dean’s cock, slicking it up like crazy before lining himself up and sinking down. 

Dean—Dean is a fucking revelation beneath him. The perfect, patient sub, desperate to near quaking, shivering from arousal and the undeniable pain of the fiery skin of his asscheeks, but still trying _so_ damn hard to please. He groans and tips his head back as Castiel’s body envelops his cock, briefly flustered about what to do with his hands until Castiel grabs them and places them firmly on his hips. 

“Touch me, you can touch me.” Castiel pants, his own eyes fluttering closed as he pushes himself down to fully-seated. It’s been a minute since he’s done this, and while it’s pleasurable and it’s _Dean,_ it’s also a not-small dick up his not-used-to-it ass, and Castiel finds himself curling forward into Dean’s chest for a moment to adjust. To his surprise, Dean’s hands come up to drift gently down his back, nails scratching blissfully and then followed by his palms. 

“Feels so good, Sir,” Dean whispers, and Castiel clenches his muscles in response, making him moan. “Thank you,” Dean says, and _that’s it,_ Castiel has to slap a hand over Dean’s mouth before he loses it. To lean into the moment, he keeps it there, straightening up to look down his nose at his sub and rock his hips into Dean’s pelvis. Just above Castiel’s hand, Dean’s eyes are wide but still plenty glazed, beautiful and piercing as they hold contact with his own. 

Tipping his own head back, Castiel lets out a groan as he moves, riding Dean enthusiastically, sliding up and down on his cock and rolling his hips in a circle. The more he moves, the better he feels, and planting a foot next to Dean’s flank gives him the leverage he needs to hit his own prostate. He _uses_ Dean, fucks him hard, chases his own pleasure and relishes the way Dean shakes and sweats and fights to hold on beneath him. 

“You—you can come,” Castiel gasps out, knowing he’s less than a minute from finishing himself and not even remotely trying to hold back. As he grinds down and swivels his hips, Castiel gets a hand around his cock and strokes, letting his orgasm flow through him as he spurts hot and wet all over Dean’s stomach, just as he promised. 

Dean isn’t far behind, Castiel’s permission unlocking some kind of floodgates he was barely holding shut, and his hips jerk up while his hands pull down. Even through the fog of his own afterglow, Castiel _loves_ feeling Dean let go, feeling him grip his hips in both need and desperation, feeling his hot seed spilling so satisfyingly deep inside him. It feels like a _mark,_ a brand, and while Dean doesn’t know it, Dean thinks he had to _ask_ to belong to Castiel when Castiel is already _his_ —the opposite is true _._ Castiel’s always been his, whether either of them realized it or not.

Cleanup is faster than usual this time, perhaps in part because Castiel has something to look forward to. Today, he doesn’t have to worry about getting out of the room, or what he _should_ be doing, _should_ be feeling. He just gets to _be_ with _Dean._ He cleans himself up in the bathroom just to have a moment to control his shaking hands, to get his excitement under control before slipping back into the playroom bed with an already orange-juice-flavored Dean and pulling him close. It can’t be after ten in the morning, but Castiel is now the kind of exhausted that one can’t fight, no matter how much they want to enjoy the moment. His eyelids fall closed with the weight of something much heavier pressing them down.

It’s _good_ to know that he doesn’t need to fight. That he’s _meant_ to stay, that Dean wants him to do so. As he falls asleep, he holds Dean just a little bit closer, feels Dean’s warm breath on his neck. He savors everything about the moment, from the way Dean’s ribcage expands into his side, to the contented sigh Dean breathes out, the hand he rests in the middle of Castiel’s chest and the way his lips graze gently over the hollow of Castiel’s collarbone. 

In his drowsy, relaxed state, Castiel _almost_ slips and murmurs to Dean that he loves him, but he manages to bite it back at the last second. It’s not as painful, tonight, the way the words get swallowed down into his chest, because Castiel has every chance in the world to put his feelings into action in a way that he already knows Dean will accept. In a way that Dean not only _wants_ but _needs_. He revels in the heat of Dean’s body, the way his torso feels resting on top of his own. Castiel hangs on, holds him that much tighter. 

It’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Okay, now that we have that straightened out, we can go back to the sexy times. :-P No promises that there won't be relationship angst in the future (there almost has to be) BUT it will not be anything near this level of pain. Unresolved drop is the worst, in my book, and they're definitely through it. While Dean may absolutely drop again in the future, he will never be left to deal with it on his own again. 
> 
> If you want to read more about the form of subdrop Dean was experiencing, you can click here and: [check out this article!](https://kessilylewel.com/2018/11/11/dealing-with-subdrop/)
> 
> Next time: Dean POV, flirty boys in tuxes, _feelings_ , Dean discovers he puts the "M" in BDSM, Cas is equal parts hard and soft as hell, Cas _is_ actually Dean's person.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean uses (some of) his words and finally gets (some more of) what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read this note!  
> First of all, thank you to all of you who left kind comments on the last chapter or went out of your way to say you didn't agree with the BS occurring in the comments section, or who engaged at all in this story's defense. If y'all know me at all, you know I'm pretty sensitive. I don't subscribe to "well you put it out there, so I can say whatever I want," theory. I don't think it costs anything to be kind or to simply close a window if you are consuming FREE content someone worked hard on and you find you don't like it. I do it all the time.
> 
> Same note, I love to engage with you guys. I love to ask your opinions on kink scenes and content and other light-hearted things that don't affect the actual characterization and storyline. I don't ask for concrit on the *story itself*, ever, because a) I already have a plan and b) I KNOW I'm too sensitive for it. And if you didn't know that, I'm telling you outright. 
> 
> Right or wrong, that is me, that is how it is. If you enjoy my fics, literally all I'm asking in return is that you don't push those buttons because it hurts me and makes me want to stop writing. ANYTHING else, please, feedback away. I want to know how you want to see them get it on. I want to know what kinks you like (or don't), etc etc. I want to hear your reactions to the story (even if those are tough, because those are YOUR reactions and all valid)!!! There's a difference between "Oh wow, this chapter was awful for me to read because I'm sensitive to subdrop" and "oh wow, using this kink means you're a disgusting human and I hate how you made Cas someone who likes it." Dig? Big difference. If I need to explain why the first is something I always want to hear and the second is something I never do, please, do us both a favor and exit stage left. 
> 
> Similarly, there is no right or wrong way to be into BDSM. People are not "one thing" or the other, if they don't want to be. This is a story about romance and two people who are in love and trying to give each other what they _need_ , and a big part of the story is figuring out what that might be. The scenes with D/S and S&M are fully intertwined with the storytelling. Cas does certain things because he _loves_ Dean, and vice versa. You can't look at their sex life with a separate lens from the entire story.
> 
> Having said that, not all kinks they try are things they decide they enjoy, not everything will make more than one appearance, and not everything they try _works_. The thing is, even experienced Doms and Subs who know what they like independently often go through this together, to see how they fit and how to make their relationship something that suits both people. Clothed roundtable negotiation is not where that starts and ends. 
> 
> All that to say, if you don't LIKE the idea of multifaceted characters who are flexible and who care about each other and are willing to learn and adapt to best support the other, if you only like your BDSM to be "one thing"--again, best to exit stage left. Real people aren't "one thing," and I can't write something that's not what I know or believe in, so apologies if that's not what you were looking for. 
> 
> If you don't have anything nice to say, PLEASE don't come into my comments insulting my characters or my storyline. I have worked really hard on this. Just X it out and find something else to read, no hard feelings. I have plenty of other stories that have none of these themes.
> 
> Thank you to the editors who made this readable/encouraged me to keep going and to post it: coinofstone & MalMuses. You should consider thanking them if you're happy this fic is continuing, as both of them regularly talk me off a ledge. 
> 
> Everyone I haven't scared off, some chapter warnings:  
> Non-sexual: brief mentions of homophobia, nothing serious, negotiated uncollared scene, enthusiastic consent  
> Sex-specific: Mentions of only: choking, shibari, suspension. Shown in detail: showering, shaving, blowjobs, v. light breathplay, facials, chastity, plugs, ongoing kink negotiation, self-prep, Cas riding Dean, bottom Dean, pain play, sharp play, very light bloodplay (blood is a product of what they end up doing, no one plays in it or drinks it or anything), light scarification. 
> 
> IF YOU ARE NOT INTO THOSE LAST FEW TAGS: the scene is much less harsh than it sounds and Cas remains his gentle-Dom self through it all, but IF you would like to skip it, YOU CAN, you will not miss anything important besides the fact that Dean likes pain, which we already know. I made sure there was some smut at the top for y'all to enjoy too.  
> At the end of the safe section, Cas says, "Strip." followed by this: "********" instead of my usual 3 asterisks. That's your cue. :)

Waking up next to Cas never gets old. It’s only been a little over three weeks since Dean showed up half-drunk and dropping, wholly unsure what he was doing, dressed in panties and trying to bait Cas into showing him affection by way of an ass beating. In that time, though, Cas has been damn true to his word. Now, after they scene, he reliably stays the night in the playroom bed with an attitude that Dean might even be coaxed to call “enthusiastic.” Through every one of those nights, Cas holds Dean or lets Dean hold him, and he does his best not to be the first one up and at ‘em in the morning, before Dean can wake up and see him still there. 

With each passing day, Dean can feel something loosening inside his chest. The tendrils of that deep-seated fear he that can’t help but hang onto, the idea that Cas is resentful and simply placating him, begin to let go. Dean can hardly believe it himself, but all of those insecurities are slowly but surely whittling themselves away, without him even trying or actively working through the issues that put them there in the first place. 

The way Cas saw straight through Dean’s bullshit that morning was almost scary, though. At least Cas had the decency to explain about his little “meeting of the minds” with Meg over dinner later that night, so Dean could shelve his suspicion that Cas was actually psychic. Of course, if Cas were psychic, Dean would have a whole other set of issues to deal with, wouldn’t he? 

Regardless, Cas is keeping his promises and better than that (from where Dean is sitting, at least), he _seems_ pretty damn happy, himself. There are times, even, when Dean’s begun to question his own assumptions about Cas and his ability to feel feelings for other people. Honestly, he’d have to be an idiot not to, with all the signs cropping up left and right. 

For starters, there’s the way Cas reaches for him totally unprompted in the middle of the night. There’s the way he seemingly jumped at the chance to stay overnight with Dean in the playroom bed. And there’s how, when he thinks Dean isn’t looking, Castiel stares and gets that sappy expression on his face that usually only crops up after sex. 

There’s also the fact that, even with their newly relaxed boundaries, Cas hasn’t tried to put up others. He hasn’t distanced himself from Dean’s friendship, hasn’t suggested that perhaps they should try and keep their relationship to one thing or another, for clarity’s sake. New to this whole thing as he is, Dean can’t help but think that’s the _most_ logical path, for someone so concerned about bleeding the boundaries of friendship and sex. 

But Cas doesn’t seem worried and so Dean doesn’t either, and they continue to have movie nights (sometimes with Dean’s collar on, sometimes off), go to the bar with Sam and their co-workers, and generally, live their lives the way they always have. 

Just with some new and improved “extras”.

But Dean wonders. Distantly, and only from the safe space known as the inside of his own head, but he does. It’s nothing he _can_ bring up at this point, even if he wanted to. Surely, if Cas _is_ developing feelings, he’d share them? He must know that Dean would never make the first move, not after everything Cas has told him about Meg and how _her_ unreciprocated feelings drove them apart and then into the ground. It’s those reservations that have Dean questioning his own judgment, whether the things he sees can just as easily be explained by the care and patience of a good Dom and a great friend. 

_Probably,_ he tells himself. _That’s probably all it is._

On the other hand, their sex has never been hotter, and their scenes only seem to be getting better. More intense and more fulfilling each time they’re together, if still fairly “safe,” as far as BDSM goes, at least in Dean’s opinion. Last night, Cas wove a full harness over Dean’s chest and thighs with rope and suspended him from the ceiling, fucked him in mid-air in a way that made Dean feel like he was flying, or tumbling around in outer space like a sexy, intergalactic porn star. _Hot._

In short, Dean has no complaints there, and maybe he shouldn’t let himself get so hung up on wondering what all is going on in that weird little head of Cas’, lest he push the wrong button and mess up the great things they do have going. Whatever it is Cas feels, it’s translating to Dean spending a crap ton of time on Cloud-Fucking-9, so really, he’d be an idiot to do anything that might put that in jeopardy. 

The _only_ thing he sort of wishes that he could bring up to Cas doesn’t have to do with any of that complicated emotional bullshit at all, and everything to do with his own desires. Bringing anything up to Cas feels like a Big Deal, though, in part because Dean’s made such a production of not wanting to be involved with designing scenes or debriefing them afterwards. 

The more comfortable he becomes with Cas, though, the less difficult the concept of discussing things he would have balked heavily at before feels. But Dean’s not stupid—he knows if he’s the one to bring something up, Cas is going to take it seriously. If he portrays it as a _need,_ he’s going to end up getting exactly what he asks for, which in this case is as terrifying as it is enticing. And for that reason, Dean has been stewing and chewing on his thoughts _much_ more carefully than he ever has, about _anything_ he’s sought out in his entire life. 

At the end of the day, he’s not afraid to tell Cas what he wants because he thinks Cas won’t be into it or won’t give it to him. On the contrary, Dean is nervous because he _knows,_ instinctively, that Cas has been holding back on some of the more dangerous, more _specific_ kinks on their lists. Maybe he’s protecting Dean, taking things slow after what happened at the beginning of their relationship. Or maybe he’s waiting for Dean to be able to get up the balls to ask for what he really wants. That would be such a _Cas_ thing to do, Dean’s definitely not ruling it out. 

It’s not that what they’re currently doing isn’t meeting Dean’s needs—it is. Submitting to Castiel, handing over control of his body and his pleasure, it’s a high and a relief like no other Dean’s ever experienced. The way he feels when he comes out on the other side of an intense scene is nearly indescribable; floating and free, unburdened, cared for. 

But Dean can’t stop coming back to the conversation he and Cas had at the beginning, the one that happened before they ever laid a hand on each other. Back before there were contracts and kink lists—just him, Cas, some beers and a movie that was too dull to keep either of their attention. 

Dean had been fidgeting, and Castiel had called him on the carpet for exactly what he was: touch-starved, horny, unable to get out of his own head. Frustrated and antsy, Dean had all too easily spilled his guts on how lately, the stresses of his job felt like they kept building and building. Unlike when he was young, these days, things just never seem to let up. There’s no reprieve, no emergency release valve for the pressure he’s under. Too many victims, people he can’t save, plus friends going under around him for the same reasons he’s struggling to keep his own head up.

Under Castiel’s understanding gaze, Dean even admitted to having nightmares. Nightmares in which he’s been forced to relive emergency responses that didn’t go well, calls he wished he could have done something different with, something that might have resulted in a better outcome. 

When Dean was younger, all those things still existed, still _happened_ on the job,but they also rolled easily right off of his back. A few whiskeys, a quick roll in the hay with a hot stranger picked up at a bar, _boom,_ good as new. With a sigh and a drag of his fingers through his hair, Dean had complained that those coping mechanisms hadn’t been cutting it for quite some time. 

And that’s when Castiel had set down his beer, and made Dean an offer. 

At the time, it was so unexpected that it probably took Dean the better part of a half hour just to wrap his head around the basics, which came down to _Cas_ suggesting that the two of them have sex. On a regular basis. That would have been wild enough, and Dean would have been in, no questions asked. Fortunately, his brain caught back up with his dick in time to will it down and take over again (temporarily), at least to parse a few of the more _non-_ basic aspects of the proposal out. 

One of those “aspects” happened to be the way Castiel talked about pain. It was fascinating and alluring, and Dean was captivated from the jump, not that he said so back then. But that is what Dean reflects on now, what he _has_ been reflecting on for days. That’s his secret, so to speak, the dirty-dark thing he’s been working up the courage to ask his Dom to give him. It’s the need he’s both unabashedly terrified of and desperate to try on for size, and the temptation of it calls to him like a siren. 

The deeper he and Cas travel into their shared world of submission and domination, punishment and pleasure, the more Dean _wants._ It’s complicated—all of it twisting together, intoxicating and delicious, swirled together with love and lust and fear—and Dean is _ready_ for Cas to take them both to the next level. 

It was clear from the things Castiel said that first night, the examples he gave, that _Cas_ doesn’t get off on pain, or even causing it, necessarily. No, even back then Dean understood very clearly that _Cas_ gets off on making his subs feel satisfied. _Cas_ gets off on meeting his subs needs—that’s _part_ of what Cas’ needs are, really, which is a whole other train of thought, one that Dean finds equally fascinating, because it’s entirely different from how his own brain works. 

Despite that distinction, Castiel still managed to make the idea of inflicting and receiving elevated, intentional pain sound exhilarating. He described the kind of eyes-rolling-back-in-your-head experience that could transform a scene and a subsequent orgasm from _awesome_ to _soul-temporarily-left-my-body_ levels. 

And Dean _wants_ that. Not that he has any clue what he’s asking for, not really, although he has some vague ideas. It’s not as if this is out of left field—Dean’s fairly certain Castiel knows perfectly well that he enjoys a little pain with his pleasure, Dean’s just not exactly sure if he gets the extent of his curiosity or Dean’s desire to explore his own limits. 

Squirming against last night’s slightly-crusty sheets, Dean tips his head to the side and takes in Castiel’s peaceful expression. The lines in his forehead and around his eyes smooth out to nothing when he sleeps, taking years off his handsome face. Right now he’s on his left side, right hand tucked under his cheek, pillow completely lost to the nighttime shuffle. Warmed by the sight, Dean chuckles a little as he imagines the way Cas is definitely gonna wake up pissy, his left arm almost definitely gone numb thanks to the angle it’s tucked beneath him. 

His smile fading, Dean bites at his thumbnail and tries to summon the courage and the words to ask Castiel hurt him. _Hurt him? Is that really what he wants?_ It’s not the pain, Dean’s scened enough with Castiel at this point to know that. It’s the _escapism_ the pain provides. The way it forces Dean out of his head in a way that nothing else does. Actually, the amplified orgasm is a bonus, really. It’s _that_ aspect Dean’s really interested in—the distraction. 

And yes, on some level, he does feel that he deserves it. Pain, that is. Punishment. There are things in Dean’s life that he feels guilty about—people he should have been able to help, victims and patients he let down by not being _his_ best, by not being able to deliver on his promise to save them. 

In that same vein, of all the things Dean is unsure about when it comes to Castiel, _this_ is a big one. Part of him thinks Castiel will understand completely, and part of him thinks Castiel will refuse outright, on principle. That he’ll tell Dean he’s being unfair and ridiculous, berating himself in that particular way and carrying these regrets and perceived failings about things he couldn’t control whether it’s logical to or not. 

Dean scoffs. He knows his issues aren’t logical. If they were, he wouldn’t need to resort to alternative methods to cope, he’d just reason his way back to sanity and mental peace. Stealing another glance in Castiel’s direction, his mouth twitching up at the side when Castiel sighs and snuffles into the mattress in his sleep, Dean blows out a breath and focuses his gaze on the rotating ceiling fan. He knows what he has to do, what he _wants_ to do, but first—he and Cas have something much more serious to deal with today. Something that’s going to take _all_ of their combined strength and mental fortitude to endure. 

“You look stressed.” Castiel’s sleep-rough voice rumbles in Dean’s ear, and Dean can’t help but turn into him, to curl into Castiel’s body as Cas stretches and snuggles back into his side. As they come together, Dean automatically tucks Cas’ face into his neck the way that he knows he likes, curling an arm around his waist just because he can. The hum of approval and brush of lips over his collar is affirmation enough, and Dean smiles into Castiel’s hair, relishes the way Cas’ legs tangle automatically with his own under the blanket. 

“I’m okay, Sir,” he replies, not even having to look to know that Cas is making an epic expression of disbelief. Before he can protest, Dean amends, “I, uh, wanted to run some stuff by you. Later. After this torture session we have planned in—” Dean rolls over just far enough to grab his phone and squint at the screen. “—An hour. Ugh,” he groans, tossing his phone down onto the bed and twisting himself around Cas, burying his face back in Cas’ hair. “Permission to stay here and be tied to the bed and devastated for hours by my Dom instead, Sir?” 

Castiel grunts out something that might be a laugh into the space beneath Dean’s collarbone before he sits up abruptly and wraps fingers around Dean’s throat. His grip lands _just_ on the dangerous side of teasing to flirt with threatening, his thigh hot against Dean’s hip and the place he vacated at his side far too cool. Cas’ blue eyes flash dangerously in the strip of morning light slipping through the generous break in the curtains. 

“You will behave today,” he warns, pads of his fingers pulsing nearly imperceptibly against the sides of Dean’s neck while his dick very quickly gets on board with where this is going. 

Unfortunately for Little Dean, Castiel grins wickedly and takes his hand away. Hopping out of bed in one smooth movement that Dean tracks with his eyes (okay, he watches Castiel’s ass), he heads for the bathroom before Dean can turn on any sort of bratty act to try and trap him into staying and following through. Grumbling, Dean reluctantly sits up and shoots off a text message related to their impending doom before rolling off the mattress and moving to collect the clean clothes he brought with him from home yesterday. 

That is, until Castiel changes his plans with the most welcome invitation in history. The shower is already running when Cas pops his head out the bathroom door and clears his throat. “Brush your teeth and join me,” he commands, and Dean’s never spun on his heels so fast. By the time he’s spitting into the sink and washing the remnants down the drain, Cas is well on his way through washing up, body only half-visible through the frosted glass of the shower door. 

Despite having heard Cas’ instructions clearly, Dean lingers for a moment by the sink, enjoying the show Cas is putting on, whether intentional or not. His eyes follow the outline of his Dom’s muscled arms as they raise to scrub the shampoo from his hair, the subtle shift of his hips as he enjoys the hot spray on his shoulders. Cas’ head tips back until water streams down his face, a satisfied little hum escaping from his lips, and Dean thinks he’s so naturally sexy just going through his daily routine. There’s no pretense here, and he appreciates seeing Castiel stripped so bare. 

When he finally opens the door to the shower, Dean hesitates, caught up in admiring the way Cas shakes the water from his face and eyes before blinking them open. As usual, his gaze is sharp, intense, and it burns straight through Dean as steam rises around his tanned and wet body. If Dean’s being honest, he barely recognizes the man that’s been his friend for so many years—in this context, Castiel looks unearthly, ethereal, God-like. It’s a hell of a sight. 

“You’re going to regret standing out there and staring at me, instead of obeying my order,” Castiel says off-handedly, pouring some body wash onto the cloth he’s holding and lathering it up. He nods at a second washcloth, folded over a little bar built into the shower wall. “Clean yourself up, quickly.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Dean acknowledges, rushing to oblige as little lightning bolts of excitement tingle through his fingers and toes at Castiel’s tone. It’s the promise of something more to come, something Dean really needs before facing this damn day. While he washes, Castiel rinses himself, but he doesn’t close his eyes again and he doesn’t speak, either. He just stares at Dean, openly appreciating the way the soap suds and water droplets sluice down his body, smirking when he sees Dean getting hard, presumably in response to his hungry gaze. 

“See something you like, _Sir?_ ” Dean quips and Castiel’s eyes narrow, giving Dean less than a second to register his world being turned upside down before he’s being slammed against the shower wall face-first, a hand fisted in his hair and the other squeezing the base of his cock. 

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Castiel hisses in his ear and Dean swallows heavily, forcing himself not to struggle in Castiel’s grasp, failing to suppress a moan as Cas’ teeth sink into the meat between his shoulder and neck. The bite isn’t hard enough to break skin, but the threat is there and Dean is _really_ fucking glad Cas is squeezing his cock and keeping him from doing something embarrassing, like coming all over the shower wall. As it is, he can’t help shoving his ass back against Castiel’s groin, and _damn,_ he’s really turning into a needy slut for this man. _No regrets._

“I’m going to give you what you need, Dean,” Castiel continues, grinding his own hard cock into the crease of Dean’s ass, where it slips and teases in the residual soap. “But I’m not going to reward you for insolence. I think, perhaps, what “ _need”_ includes today is motivation. Motivation to behave, to be good, to not ruin this day for people who are important to you, simply because you can’t stop being a brat. Do you understand?” Castiel’s fingers tighten pointedly, the resulting stinging in his scalp nearly making Dean’s eyes roll back in his head.

“God, yes, Sir,” he replies huskily and to that, at least, Castiel chuckles. 

“I know you can be good for me, Dean,” he says softly, dropping Dean’s cock in favor of trailing his wet hand over Dean’s hip and up his flank, making Dean shiver. “Can’t you, beautiful boy?” Cas’ lips press against his neck, just above where the bite mark is and just beneath his collar, and Dean nods, letting his eyes fall closed as a small whine escapes from his lips. 

“Yes, Sir.” is all he can manage. 

“Good,” Castiel replies, and just like that, his hands are gone, leaving Dean to nearly flail into the wall as he stumbles to regain his balance. When he turns around again, Castiel is smirking. “Switch places with me,” he commands, placing a hand on Dean’s hip as they dance around so that Dean is under the majority of the spray, sending the remaining body wash swirling away down the drain. “Kneel.” 

Dean does, without protest or complaint, and even though the water beating down nearly makes it impossible, he turns his face to blink up at Castiel. With his bitten lips slightly parted, lashes wet, and cock flushed and heavy between his legs—Dean knows _exactly_ what the fuck he looks like. This move is purposeful, and it lands, Castiel grabbing him again by the hair and dragging Dean’s face forward towards his groin. “Color, Dean,” he demands impatiently.

“Green, Sir,” Dean replies immediately, and the words are barely out of his mouth before Cas’ cock is filling it, shoving all the way in and past his hard palate so that Dean has to consciously relax his jaw and breathe through his nose. They hold like that for a minute, until tears are prickling at the corner of Dean’s eyes and mixing with the water trickling down his face. A small stream of drool joins the mix right before Castiel pulls out completely, patting Dean’s cheek as he goes with satisfaction. 

“Good boy,” Cas tells him, before picking up his razor from the little built-in shelf and holding it out for Dean to take. “We will return to that momentarily. First, you’re going to take care of some maintenance for me. Looking smug, Castiel props his foot up on the same shelf and raises an eyebrow as he looks down at Dean, motioning with a wide circle to his pelvic area. It takes Dean a minute, water from the shower still streaming down over his face, to figure out what he’s being asked to do, but when he does, he’s eager. “I know you enjoy a clean workspace,” Castiel quips with a twinkle in his eye, presumably by way of explanation. 

The thing is, Castiel’s typically good about manscaping, way better than most of the dudes Dean has been with in the past. Even still, he tends to keep things trimmed and neat, never bare. Not that Dean has any complaints—it’s Cas’ body and however he wants to rock it is fine by Dean. But if Cas is _offering_ , Dean is definitely all in on this one. In fact, just imagining being allowed to worship the end result has his dick pulsing with interest. He looks up at Castiel, unsure, because this sure feels like a reward. “Do you… have any other instructions for me, Sir?” 

Pleased, Castiel runs a gentle hand through Dean’s hair, approving. “Whatever you would like to do,” he says, and even though it’s blanket permission for Dean to do what he likes, Castiel’s words still somehow carry a weight and authority that has Dean anxious to get this right, whatever _right_ means. “Just don’t cut me, or there will be serious repercussions.” Dean nods, and refocuses on his canvas.

Licking his lips and tasting water, he decides to use some of the body wash to soften and smooth the way, lathering Cas up and ignoring the way Cas’ cock fills out further under his touch. He checks the razor and finds it to be a brand-new, five-bladed, expensive thing that makes Dean feel a lot better about using it on Cas’ sensitive parts. Carefully, he drags the razor against the grain over the short hairs above Cas’ cock, glancing up for approval and finding only amusement looking back down at him. 

Since Cas is trimmed already, it’s not too tough of a job, though Dean finds himself holding his own breath while he works on shaving Cas’ balls, not fearing his potential punishment as much as he knows from experience what a nick there feels like. He stretches the skin carefully, holds it taut against the razor, and manages to get them both through the process in one piece.

When he’s finished and Cas is smooth and nick-free, Dean makes a pleased noise and flips the razor in his hand, though with the water in his face, he winds up dropping it with a clatter onto the shower floor. He’s more careless than he should be when reaching down to pick it up, the water flowing into his eyes and obscuring his sight as he closes fingers around the razor’s head instead of the handle. The result is a thin cut to his index finger and a yelping, “Ouch!” spilling from his own mouth. 

Cas is there immediately, crouching down to take the razor before reaching for the injured finger Dean’s instinctively popped into his mouth. Dean raises his eyes to meet Cas’, noting how Cas’ pupils dilate to see him that way, and only upon pulling his finger out through his lips does it register that there may be more to this than just Dean making a cock-sucking suggestive gesture. 

“I think you’ll live,” Castiel tells him, but he barely looks at Dean’s finger, pressing down over the cut with his thumb and watching Dean’s reaction with interest. It _does_ sting, but Dean doesn’t hate it, and he’s pretty sure the way he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth tells Castiel so. “Interesting,” Castiel murmurs before standing again and putting the razor away. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time right now to explore that, but we will talk later. Right now, we need to give you your motivation so that we can get to our scheduled appointment on time. In fact—” 

Pushing open the shower door, Castiel wipes his hand on one of the towels hanging on the rack before reaching over to press the home screen on his phone, which is sitting on the counter next to the sink. “You have exactly three minutes to get me off using only your mouth. You are _not,_ under any circumstances, to come. If you can get me off in time, I won’t put you in chastity today. If you don’t…” Castiel trails off and flashes him a wicked smile, the fucker. _No one_ is getting off in three fucking minutes. What are they, seventeen and new? 

But Dean sighs and edges forward dutifully, still being soaked by the shower as he does, opening his mouth wide for Castiel to slide into. His knees are really getting sore, that shit is punishment enough, if you ask Dean. Still, if there’s one thing he’s learned the hard way, it’s that arguing with Castiel will get him nowhere except frustrated and horny. It’s not as if he has anything to complain about, though—Cas’ freshly shaved skin is deliciously smooth and soft against Dean’s nose, his cheek, his lips. It’s pretty fuckin’ heavenly, and Dean does his best to show his appreciation with enthusiasm and all the best techniques he knows. 

Even still, pulling out all the stops—deepthroating and swallowing around nearly Cas’ entire length, licking around him like a lollipop, sucking like his life depends on it—doesn’t drag Cas over the finish line in time. While Dean expected this outcome (and is highly suspicious Cas did too), he’s still disappointed, though Castiel himself doesn’t seem remotely upset. 

_Of course he isn’t,_ Dean thinks, as he lifts his water and tear-streaked face to watch Cas finish jerking himself off with his hand, closing his eyes as Cas’ cum lands hot on his face. _He’s off, he’s way off. I’m the one getting my dick shoved in prison._

Grumpy, Dean pouts as he dries off, using the towel to obscure his expression from Cas’ scrutiny, but he’s sure he knows. Castiel finishes before him, sweeping off into the playroom to rummage in the drawers of one of the armoires. Dean follows reluctantly, standing quietly with his head down and his hands behind his back. 

“Dean,” Castiel says softly, appearing at his side somewhat suddenly. “I want you to know that you can say no to this request. I’m aware you’re going to take your collar off before we leave regardless, and that we will be in friendship-mode, as far as the world is concerned. If you want to maintain those boundaries, you may. I’ve no right to insist you disregard them. However… I believe we’ve come a long way.” Dean lifts his head to find Castiel standing ridiculously close and looking up at him fondly. “I think we can handle this, and if I’m being honest, on a purely selfish level, I’d love to see you do it.” 

Never one to back down from a challenge, Dean bounces his eyebrows and spreads his arms. “Then lay it on me,” he replies. “Sir.” 

The grin that splits Castiel’s face is heart-wrenchingly gorgeous, and it’s so unfair—Dean would do _anything_ to be the reason for that smile. A little chastity is nothing. A walk in the fuckin’ park. Dean is _in._

***

Dean has made the greatest mistake of his life. Why the fuck he thought Cas would make this _easy_ just because it’s new or because his collar is off, is beyond Dean’s comprehension. Why it didn’t occur to him that Cas would take _every_ opportunity to press his buttons, to rile him up, to put that cock cage to the test, Dean has _no_ idea. He’s pretty sure he’s not an idiot, much as his decisions and thought process today might indicate otherwise, and yet, here he is. 

At first, things seemed to be going pretty smoothly.

Dean’s own anticipation about wearing a cage took care of any lingering arousal that might have prevented getting it on, so at least he had that going for him. As they left the apartment, Dean’s collar safely tucked away in its box but _Dean_ still very much in sub-mode, the cool, circular metal felt alright— _good,_ even, much to Dean’s surprise. It was exhilarating to be under Cas control while in public, even if—for starters— _public_ only meant the elevator in Cas’ building and then the uninspiring front seat of Dean’s car ( _sorry, Baby_ ). 

During the drive to their destination, Cas didn’t even mess with him, just let Dean adjust and focus on driving and coping with _not_ leaving his role at the door to Castiel’s apartment. He looked pretty pleased with himself, though, glancing between Dean and his window, relaxed back into his seat with all the confidence of a man who has the whole world in the palm of his hand and knows it. 

_He’s got one thing in the palm of his hand, that’s for sure,_ Dean thinks, only partly rueful.

Pulling into a parking space outside the building where their appointment is, Dean throws the car into park before turning to Castiel. “You know I’m gonna have to call you Cas, right? Sir,” he tacks on belatedly, since they are still in a private space and Dean is not about to go into this thing with Cas’ handprint waving hello from the side of his face. 

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel replies easily, _too_ easily, which is suspicious—or maybe it’s not, Dean’s not exactly swimming in familiar territory. “Consider it like… roleplay.” 

Barely stuffing down the ‘ _are you fucking kidding me, I’m roleplaying being myself?!’_ that badly wants to be blurted out, Dean shakes his head in disbelief and holds up his finger, the one with the cut on it. “Can we—yellow,” he says weakly, and the change in Cas is instant. The cocky smirk drops off of his face and he turns fully to face Dean on the bench seat. Reaching out to take Dean’s hand in both of his own, Castiel doesn’t so much as blink when Dean pulls it away with a worried glance around the parking lot.

“Go ahead,” Castiel reassures him. “Speak freely, you’re just Dean right now.” 

Dean flushes a little and has no idea why, so he covers it up by dragging a hand over his mouth and adjusting his ass in his seat. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. So, here’s the thing. I wanna do this, Cas. A lot, if you really want to know.” He pauses and waits for Cas’ acknowledgment, getting it in a subtle nod and patient smile. “I’m just—” he shakes his hands out and raises both eyebrows at Castiel, searching for words and not finding them. “ _Sam,_ ” he hisses, like Sam is sleeping in the backseat and might overhear. 

“Well,” Castiel replies with a shrug, his own gaze drawn briefly out the window before snapping back to Dean. “All I can do is ask for you to trust me. I would never intentionally out you and our relationship to Sam, nor would I embarrass you in public, since humiliation isn’t on your kink list.” Cas says the last part so blandly, Dean isn’t entirely sure if it’s a joke or not, so he’s also not sure whether that’s concerning or not. 

“About Sam,” Dean starts, but Castiel keeps going. 

“Sam knows that you and I are having sex, but not the particulars. He also thinks we’re both in denial about harboring feelings for each other,” Castiel says flatly, like it’s the world’s smallest deal and not Dean’s heart being ripped out of his chest and trampled on, right there in his own fucking car. He imagines his face reflects that, and Castiel must notice as his carefully blank expression twists with sympathy. “Apologies. I thought it best to just cut to the chase. You know Sam and I talk regularly—”

“Well, yea,” Dean replies, gesturing out the window to the place they’re parked in front of. “Duh.”

Castiel shoots him a warning look and Dean shrugs. “ _Sam,_ ” Castiel continues, with measured cadence. “Has never held back on his thoughts about you when speaking to me.” 

Well _that_ is new information, something Dean _really_ would have rather known and had time to comes to grips with more than sixty or so odd seconds before—

A rap on the window startles them both, Dean craning his neck to glare at his brother’s stupid sasquatch face peering in at him with a _way_ too knowing grin slapped across it. Considering what he’s just learned, that irritates the fuck out of Dean and he’s not above showing it.

“Fine,” he grunts at Cas, in the same breath shoving the door open and into Sam’s side, intentionally rough.

“ _Oof,”_ Sam huffs, stumbling away.

“We can do it your way,” he mutters, “Don’t make me regret it.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Castiel replies, so low and quiet Dean _almost_ misses it, and then abruptly, as he’s stepping out of the car, wishes he had.

It’s late November, and the weather isn’t above reminding them of that. The warm spell that had followed the city’s transformation from summer to fall all the way through October has officially worn all the way off, and “cold as fuck,” doesn’t even begin to cover it, in Dean’s opinion. Not that he’s some delicate flower who withers and ceases to be able to function when the temperature drops below sixty degrees, but the bite in the air and the way his nose begs to be tucked into the collar of his jacket has even Dean wishing for spring. 

A respectful ten or so feet from his car, the remainder of Sam’s gaggle of groomsmen lurks, and Dean hates this whole thing already. As he waves politely, doing his best to ignore the stinging cold whipping across his cheeks and making his eyes water (which has him flashing back to the shower and _nope—_ the warning pinch in his groin is enough to bring that train to a grinding halt), he takes inventory of faces. 

There’s Jess’ brother, a nice enough kid named—of all things—fucking _Samandriel,_ though Jess and everyone else call the poor sucker Alfie, God knows why. Dean makes a mental note as the kid waves back to send Castiel to commiserate with him over faux-religious parents who hate their children enough to name them after obscure angels. Talk about your childhood trauma—Dean can’t help but look at _that_ and feel like his own parent loss and early promotion to adulthood both pale in comparison. 

Beside Alfie, standing close enough together that Dean wonders if he’s not the only one that got the deviant gene in the family are his douchey cousin Christian and Sam’s equally douchey friend from college and med school, Brady. There aren’t two other people in the world Dean enjoys being around less, except _maybe_ the current EMS Chief, Zachariah. Dude is a prick, and he’s always fucking with Cas, and—wait, what was he doing? Oh right.

Holding out a hand to each of them in turn, Brady shakes it reluctantly before wiping his hand on his coat and Christian slaps it so hard Dean’s palm turns red. _Asshole,_ he thinks as Christian smirks, clearly hoping Dean will give him an opening to question his manhood. Excuse Dean, but he’s not the one with his hands in his “platonic work buddy’s” coat pocket. _Well,_ he thinks, stealing a glance over at Cas. _Not currently, anyway._

”What’s up,” he says flatly, internally cursing Sam for liking these guys enough to even invite them to the wedding, never mind making them people Dean’s going to have to be in close quarters with for extended periods of time until this whole thing is over. Brady is one thing, Dean gets it—he and Sam lived together all through pre-med, college is a weird time, whatever. The guy’s a jerk but it’s mostly because he’s pretentious and thinks he’s better than lowly non-doctorate-holding losers like Dean. 

Christian, on the other hand, Dean doesn’t get at all. Not him as a person, and definitely not what Sam sees in him. Despite their technically being cousins on his mother’s side, Dean fails to see the family resemblance. Christian, in his opinion, is an irredeemable asshole. Growing up, Dean and Sam had been too busy being dragged around the country by their grief-stricken and usually intoxicated father before he died to attend extended family functions, and for some reason, Christian seems to think that’s Dean’s fault. 

He sneers about their childhood as if it’s something Dean had any control over, exalts Sam for “rising above it” and regularly reminds Dean that, in the Campbell family’s opinion, he’s still gutter trash, like his dad. Just the thought makes Dean clench his hand at his side, willing it not to find its own way into the sharp bones of Christian’s nose. Fucking Sam just _had_ to go and match for his residency at the same hospital their estranged cousin was an attending at. And of course, being _Sam,_ he had to mend fences with the guy, not just to maintain a working relationship, but to try and patchwork-together the family he and Dean never had.

Dean can’t even be openly resentful about it. If Sam wants to form relationships with his blood kin, Dean would be the ultimate dick to ice him out for doing so, when it _is_ maybe just a little bit his fault that they don’t know each other in the first place. Hey, no one can say Dean didn’t do his best when it came to Sam. Distancing himself from John Winchester’s stain on Mary’s kids and gaining redemptive approval from the Campbell’s just wasn’t ever a part of that. 

“Hey there, Dean,” Christian tells him, eyes sweeping over Dean’s cheap jacket, his old jeans and his scuffed boots. “I see you came with your little guardian angel. Surprise, surprise. You winged-creatures like to stick together, don’t you?” _Oh good, a fairy joke._ Dean was really hoping this event would kick off with a fistfight. He grits his teeth and catches sight of Castiel squinting and sizing Christian up with a thoughtful tilt of his head. Well, best laid plans, Dean gives Christian thirty more seconds ‘til Cas lays him out on principle. Never, ever underestimate the hot nerdy dude in a flasher coat, that’s what Dean always says. 

Luckily for Christian’s face, Sam pops in between them then, slinging an arm around each Christian and Dean’s necks before sweeping them towards the doors of the building. “Alright, alright, you guys are here for me, not each other, try and remember that. It’s my day and I want you both up there with me, got it? We’re family. So no fighting,” he says with a chuckle that Dean wants to reach down into his throat and rip out. _Ugh._ He hates how Sam gets around these two, rolling his eyes and wishing his brother would just be his normal, dork self. 

“Fine, Sammy,” he mutters, using the childish version of Sam’s name on purpose, knowing he hates it.

“Jerk,” Sam replies, giving Dean the finger.

“Bitch.”

Castiel holds the door open for the group and everyone walks through, though he grabs Dean’s arm and holds him back for a moment until the rest of them pass. Sam glances their way but ultimately doesn’t say anything as he disappears into the relative darkness of the shop, and Dean’s grateful. The reassuring squeeze Castiel applies to his hip goes a long way to cooling Dean’s fiery edges and he sighs, yanking a hand through his hair in frustration. “I hate those two,” he tells Castiel.

“I know,” Castiel replies. “You’re doing just fine.” The wind ruffles his dark, gel-spiked hair, and the concerned, caring look he pegs Dean with as he stands close and looks up at him has Dean really needing to work to keep from kissing him. “Whatever you do, don’t hit him.” Dean scowls, but doesn’t promise anything. “If it’s needed, I’ll do it. Sam will be more inclined to forgive me.” Cas’ unexpected remark has Dean laughing, even as Cas pats his arm and moves past him into the store with a crafty smile on his face. In his pants, the cock cage bumps against Dean’s thigh, reminding him of his future reward if he can do Cas proud.

_Alright, maybe he can get through this after all._

Dean takes a deep breath, and follows his brother and his… _Cas_ inside, wrinkling his nose against the too-clean scent of new clothing and fancy shoes.

Tuxedo shopping. 

One step up from the kind of clothes shopping Charlie drags him along to do every few months (a.k.a. Dean playing the part of the gay bff in uncomfortable chairs while Charlie blasts “Walking On Sunshine” from her phone and pretends she’s in a makeover montage from the 80’s), but barely. At least here, there’s champagne, and Dean manages to down four flutes before Cas gently takes away the fifth and pinches his flank in silent warning. Dean’s tipsy brain digs it.

Somewhere between having his inseam measured by a way-too-handsy attendant and actually getting into the fitting rooms to try things on, Dean actually stops hating this whole thing. Sure, Brady and Christian are up to their normal douchebaggery, but Sam seems really happy, glowing even, and _damn_ does Cas look good in formalwear. 

So good that Dean doesn’t even bother to make a token attempt to control his face when Cas emerges from a fitting room to strut in front of the group. When he comes out, Christian and Brady are still changing and Dean is sitting, legs spread between Sam and Alfie, just waiting their turns and shooting the shit about the various shades of red and where they appear in major league sports logos. Which is probably a blessing, since there’s no way the asshole twins would ever let Dean _or_ Cas hear the end of it, had they been there to witness the way Dean’s jaw dropped at the sight of his friend all glammed up. 

To be fair, Cas looks like he just strode off the cover of GQ, a transformation worthy of Jack Dawson in Titanic—broke-ass scrub to regular first-class swell with nothing but some starched fabric and a nifty looking bowtie. Damn, but he wears it well. 

Cas knows it too, judging by the way his eyes find Dean’s immediately, all knowing and crinkly at the corners as he winks and steps up onto one of the little podiums and turns to face the mirror. His eyes find Dean’s there, too, and he turns this way and that, admiring his own form as the attendant moves to adjust his cumberbund and crouches down to do some pinning. The cut of the tux does _everything_ to accentuate Cas’ trim waist and broad shoulders, the muscles in his arms and the swell of his ass and thighs, and Dean _knows_ he’s all but drooling, can barely find it in himself to care. He knows one thing, though. Cas is a _bastard_ of a tease when he wants to be _._

Before Sam can let go of the comment that’s clearly on the tip of his tongue (or his dick can turn this outing into the most awkward family moment in history), Dean grabs his tux and hightails it for the room Cas vacated, pulling the curtain shut with more emphasis than is strictly necessary. As he dresses, Dean simultaneously wills his dick down _and_ lets his mind wander, even though he knows that’s a terrible, terrible idea.

It’s not that he’s afraid of being called out for ogling—let these fuckers know he’s doing Cas, not like Dean’s ashamed of that in the least. The man is _hot,_ and anyone who’s got a problem with the fact that they’re two dudes hooking up isn’t someone whose opinion Dean gives a rat’s ass about, anyway. No, if anything, so long as Cas doesn’t care about people knowing, Dean’s pretty damn proud to be able to say he’s hitting that. 

No, the problem is once again _Dean_ and his inconvenient, unwanted _feelings_ popping up and rearing their ugly heads at the worst time. Yes, seeing Cas in a tux makes Dean want to get on his knees right there in the middle of the shop (audience and all), but it also hurts like it has _no_ goddamn right to, and he’s an idiot for even entertaining it. Dean wishes more than anything that he could just be happy with what they have, that these fleeting thoughts about _what if_ and _if only_ would leave him the hell alone and stop waltzing through his brain, but he’s not in control of when they come and go. 

The fact is, seeing Cas in a wedding tux reminds Dean that this is the _only_ way he’ll ever see Cas looking like that. And no matter how happy he is with his and Cas’ current relationship, that reality still blows. It’s worsened by the fact that Dean never even considered himself a “settle down” type of guy before, never imagined _wanting_ to give up his wild and free single life to commit to one chick or one dude. But with Cas? Fuck, Dean can’t even pretend. He’d sign on that dotted line tomorrow if Cas were an option, if Cas wanted it too. 

But he’s not and he doesn’t, and Dean needs to knock off the sappy, self-pitying BS and get with the program before someone catches on. He sighs and pulls on his suit pants, tucking in the stiff button down he’s already donned as he settles them around his hips. If there’s one upside in all this, at least there’s no risk of Dean’s dick going wayward and making things painful for both of them—any arousal he might have felt at seeing Cas all dolled up has been effectively quenched like a bucket of ice water thrown over it by Dean’s crybaby emotions. 

As he twists in the small mirror, trying in vain to secure his cumberbund, there’s a knock on the wall just outside the curtain and Cas’ voice following close behind. “Everything alright in there? May I help with your band?” Rolling his eyes, Dean _almost_ sends Cas away, but then he figures, _what the hell?_ He’s already in this deep, might as well try on that masochism for size some more and let Cas torture him in private.

“Yeah,” he calls back, his voice slightly unsteady, enough that Dean hopes Sam’s jerk friends aren’t listening. Cas slips inside and pulls the curtain again, which thankfully goes all the way to the floor. Dean has to hand it to him, he doesn’t fuck around or carry on with some pretense for why he’s in there, he just slams Dean up against the wall with the mirror and plasters himself to Dean’s back.

Instantly, whatever he was thinking before, about his arousal being doused? Yea, scratch that, Dean’s in _big_ fuckin’ trouble. 

His breath puffing cloudy condensation onto his own reflection, Dean gives a token struggle and that just makes Cas grab his wrist, twist it behind his back, and hold on tighter. “Fuck,” Dean murmurs, as the obvious bulge of Cas’ erection makes itself known against his ass. “This is cheating,” he complains, the cage already growing tight and painful around his own cock. “Ungh,” he moans, using his free hand to press down on his crotch and running through every disgusting, dick-deflating image he can come up with as Cas’ teeth nip gently at the shell of his ear. 

“You look incredible,” Castiel growls, uncaring about Dean’s discomfort or perhaps enjoying it, probably the latter. 

“I _know,_ ” Dean replies defensively, shifting uncomfortably against the wall as Castiel grinds into him enthusiastically and without shame. “Listen, it’s a damn miracle all the blood in my entire body didn’t rush to my dick when you walked out, I could’ve ended up rolling around on the floor screaming about my balls in front of Sam, you get that, right?” 

“I really do,” Castiel replies thickly and with blatant appreciation for the imagery. “Perhaps I should be insulted that you didn’t.”

“I ran back here, didn’t I?” Dean mumbles, his dick finally giving up the ghost under the pinching pain and pressure it’s been getting in response to its failed attempts to stand up and say hello. Alright, so the details of his escape are a bit different than he’s claiming, but Cas doesn’t need to know that.

“Hmm,” is all Castiel says in return, busy nosing at the nape of Dean’s neck, kissing his skin softly and then pulling away without warning. When he stands back, Dean’s cumberbund is secured perfectly in place and Castiel is grinning from ear to ear like he just won the giant stuffed animal at the county fair. 

“Sneaky bastard,” Dean grunts, pressing a rough kiss to the side of Castiel’s face before slipping out from behind the curtain and going to face the music. 

The rest of their appointment goes smoothly, and they all manage to make it out the door with tuxes ordered and no one’s face being rearranged by Castiel’s fist, so Dean figures it a success. Before they split up, he and Sam make plans to get together for dinner the following night since they’re both off, and Cas says something about seeing him in the hospital the following week. 

Apparently (according to the chatter Dean only half-listens to because he’s thinking about his dick), Cas is scheduled for his annual intubation skills review and demonstration in the OR with the city’s EMS medical director. Tradition holds that his ten-hour assignment usually turns into Cas intubating two people and then Dr. Edlund taking him out for an extended lunch that involves cocktails and no one going back to the hospital for the rest of the day. _Man,_ he thinks. Christian might’ve been right, after all—drinking in the middle of the work day? Dean _is_ in the wrong profession.

On the car ride back to Castiel’s apartment, Cas is quiet, contemplatively staring out the window as Dean drives, and try as he might, Dean can’t figure out if he’s truly having a moment or if this is an intimidation tactic. Either way, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him uneasy. Cas’ silence continues all the way through their walk across the underground lot where Dean’s car now hangs out frequently in the second space assigned to Cas’ apartment (and with his very own access keyfob for the garage, thank you very much), through the ride up in the elevator, and throughout Cas’ unlocking of his door. 

It lasts through Cas picking up the box that contains his collar and offering it up, through Dean taking it and putting it back on, and through Castiel retrieving them beers from the fridge and motioning with his hand for Dean to sit down on the couch. When he speaks, it isn’t what Dean expects.

“If I asked you something, would you be honest with me?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Dean replies easily, despite the lump rising in his throat. It’s not a lie, not for ninety-nine percent of the things Castiel could _possibly_ ask. The only thing Dean would lie to him about at this point would be his feelings about Cas himself, and only if Cas asked point-blank in a way Dean couldn’t dodge or divert. Not a cell of his being wants to be untruthful with Castiel, not anymore, not after everything he’s given Dean. But _that_ —those feelings? Well, Cas has taught him everything he knows about hard limits, and this is one of them. 

“When we were in the dressing room together,” Castiel begins, and Dean barely stops himself from breathing an obvious sigh of relief. _When you were fucking with me,_ he wants to interject, but doesn’t, because while the cage has been fun, Dean _is_ looking to get off tonight. “When you became aroused and the cage began to cause you pain, did you… enjoy the actual pain aspect of what was happening?” Dean opens his mouth to reply, and Castiel holds up a hand. “I’d like you to take a moment and really think about what I’m asking. There’s a difference between _appreciating_ the pain and enjoying it. There is a line between understanding it and _craving it._ I saw something in your face, when you cut your finger in the shower, and I’m… curious.” 

Working his jaw a little, Dean slumps back against the couch and looks at Castiel skeptically. _Is_ his friend actually a mindreader? This isn’t the first time Dean’s wondered, isn’t the first time Cas has seen through his desires so easily. It _would_ be worrying, but this—in what universe does Dean get to _have_ this? Someone who understands and validates him so easily, who’s always one step ahead of the things Dean wants but struggles to ask for. If he was a lesser man, the whole thing might bring tears to his eyes, and oh, fuck, who is Dean kidding? 

“Oh,” Castiel says immediately, turning to grab a tissue from the box on the side table. “I’m so sorry Dean, I didn’t mean to—please don’t be upset, there’s no pressure for you to like something that you don’t. I was wrong, I—”

“No, stupid.” Dean sniffles, snatching the tissue from Castiel’s grasp and wiping at his traitorous eyes roughly. 

“Dean,” Castiel says warningly, but Dean holds up a hand, still pressing the tissue to his eyes with his index fingers. 

“Sorry,” Dean says brusquely, tone covering desperately for the waver still present in his voice. “Just—one minute. Let me try, please? I’m trying.” He manages to look up and make eye contact, because he’s figured out it’s what Cas responds to best, what makes him feel respected and like Dean is being sincere. It works; Cas nods and relaxes minutely, letting Dean have the space to get what he needs to say from his brain down to his tongue and out into the world. 

“You’re not wrong,” Dean begins, and this time, his eyes are focused on the knit fabric of Cas’ couch cushions because he’s just not _that_ together or confident, not by a long shot. The fact that he’s even doing this, when just a few short weeks ago he wouldn’t even debrief a scene with Cas, feels like monumental progress. He hopes Cas sees that, too. “You remember this morning, when I said I had some stuff I wanted to run by you? Well…” 

Dean’s courage starts to run out, and instead of trying to search out more words, he holds up his cut finger and wiggles it, then uses it to point between himself and Cas. “Guess you beat me to the punch.” Feeling lighter, Dean chances looking up to gauge Cas’ reaction, able to do so only because he knows he won’t find judgment there. He’s right—Cas is leaned against the couch with his arm resting on the back and his head in his hand, eyes thoughtful, gears clearly turning. 

While Dean watches him, nervous and twisting his fingers together in his lap, a small smile spreads across Castiel’s face. “You know that I couldn’t ask for a more perfect, more lovely, willing and inspiring submissive,” Castiel says bluntly, and Dean flushes, because who the fuck talks like that? About him, no less. “If you want to explore this,” he continues, easy as if they were discussing whether or not to go out for dinner. “I’m not only game, I’m excited. And if you decide at any time that it is not for you, or a particular type of pain is not for you, you should know in advance that you will not disappoint me by saying so. We will make it up as we go,” Castiel offers, leaning forward and into Dean’s space with intention and promise, but also plain affection written all over his face. 

“Thank you, sunshine,” Dean says softly, tipping his head to side and his chin forward in silent request, and Castiel reaches out, crooks his finger under Dean’s chin to pull him in and kiss him gently. The sweetness of his touch and the promises he’s just made to Dean sit in stark contrast, but Dean eats it up, can’t get enough of Cas’ hard and soft edges. The way he can make Dean twist and scream and beg for mercy and then right after, pet his hair for over an hour while Dean lays boneless in his arms—both sides of Cas are Dean’s favorite, it’s _all_ more than he deserves, more than he could have ever dreamed of having. 

“While both adorable and appreciated, “sunshine” is not quite appropriate right now,” Castiel reminds Dean after he pulls away from his lips. “Nor is “stupid,” but you know that. I would have slapped you, but it felt incongruent with the conversation.” Cas is only half-serious, Dean can tell by the way he suppresses his smile, the way he looks towards the balcony doors instead of making eye contact, presumably so as not to undermine himself. “Besides,” he continues. “Considering the subject matter, it seems as if I’ll have satisfaction in that department soon enough.” He shrugs. “I’ll find a way to work it in.” He winks and stands, holding out a hand for Dean to take and then leading him to the playroom when he does.

“Strip,” he commands.

********

What follows is the longest inside-the-bedroom kink negotiation Dean and Castiel have ever had, up to this point. Going down the S&M road blindly seems like something Cas just isn’t willing to do, and Dean is fine with that—maybe even secretly relieved, just a little. While Dean kneels on the bed, Castiel—still fully clothed—sifts through his various toys and implements, holding various options up and explaining what they do, what they _will_ do to Dean’s body, and then watching his face for a reaction.

Dean, for his part, is struggling a little. Sure, the _idea_ of pain inside of a scene sounds all sexy and exciting in his head, and god knows Dean knows what he likes, but hearing the nitty-gritty details—the mechanical, clinical explanations of what _this_ flogger and _that_ whip feel like, the harm _this_ pinwheel and _that_ clamp might cause him— _outside_ of any existing arousal or stimulation that’s designed to mitigate his anxiety by reminding him of the sensations he’s looking for—it’s not exactly putting Dean in the mood. Which is ironic, since his cock has finally been freed, and now is not remotely interested in taking advantage of the situation.

Thankfully, Castiel seems to catch onto this and changes tack, though not before Dean considers at _least_ throwing up his yellow flag or maybe just bailing on the scene altogether and finding some more beers. As Dean shifts uncomfortably on the sheets, Castiel suddenly just stops. Stops talking, stops examining his collection of instruments, stops trying to solicit Dean’s input on the best way to wreck his shit without scaring him off of ever scening again. 

Instead, he closes up the armoire he’s been rummaging through and turns to Dean, that thoughtful look he’s been wearing off and on all day back on his face. “This isn’t working, is it?” he says bluntly.

“No, Sir,” Dean replies, shaking his head emphatically while his shoulders deflate in relief. 

“Alright,” Castiel agrees, pressing a finger to his lips as he paces a little before once again facing Dean. “Shall we start over?” 

“Please, Sir.” Dean doesn’t hesitate to answer, licking lips that have gone dry with his building anxiety. 

Castiel nods. “Sit up against the headboard.” He points and then moves back to the middle armoire, the one that Dean has learned contains mostly practical items—restraints, plugs, a friggin’ endless supply of lube that Dean suspects rivals the one in Chris Crocker’s house. When Castiel returns, it’s to toss his favorite plug down onto the bed next to Dean’s hip, alongside a bottle of lube. “Prep yourself,” he says simply. “I’ll be right back.” On his way out of the room, Castiel dims the lights and presses play on his sound system, releasing some soft, nondescript music into the air. 

Slightly less unsettled with the change in both pace and atmosphere, Dean sinks back against the headboard and squeezes some lube into his hand, stroking himself gently. Cas didn’t say he _couldn’t_ touch his cock, and Dean really needs it to get back into the mood for what they’re about to do. 

In the end, it’s not a difficult mindset to shift; without Cas’ slightly terrifying lecture-slash-show-and-tell dampening his arousal, just being in the playroom and in this bed fires it back up easily. In turn, Dean lets his mind drift, thinking about Cas and Cas touching him, shivering a little with the cool air from the fan blowing across his naked skin, letting his eyes fall closed as his fingers make their way down and inside himself. 

It’s not long before he’s sighing and moaning quietly, riding his own hand with the other still slipping slowly around his cock, biting his lip and tipping his head back against the wall. In fact, Dean gets a little lost in it all, nearly forgetting where he is and what he’s meant to be doing. At least, until he hears a soft growl from above, and Dean opens his eyes to find Cas staring down at him with the _most_ heated look on his face. 

“I regret not staying for the show now,” Castiel tells him as Dean blinks and hums and pulls his fingers out, accepting the damp towel Castiel hands over to clean them off. There’s no warning before Castiel shoves the plug inside his ass, save for the brief glimpse Dean catches of him squeezing some lube on it. Even still, it’s a welcome sensation after losing his fingers, and Dean can’t help but bite his lip and make eye contact with Castiel while he toys with it, tugging it against his rim before letting it sink back in. 

“Hands down on the sheets, for now,” Castiel instructs, _finally_ stripping off his own long-sleeved henley and undoing his belt while Dean’s gaze lingers lazily on his bare chest. Mid-strip, he gets distracted and moves back over to the nightstand where a handful of candles have appeared (geez, Dean must have been really into the moment not to notice Cas’ apparent back and forth from his side) along with their typical aftercare supplies… and a first aid kit. 

He looks quizzically up at Castiel, who just smiles and lights the candles, adding a romantic sort of glow to this part of the room. Without any further hesitation, Cas kicks off his boots, drops his pants, and climbs up into Dean’s lap. Reaching down, he takes one of Dean’s hands and directs it to his ass, where Dean’s fingers naturally curve around a cheek, the tips coming to rest on something skin-warmed and metal. 

Dean raises his eyebrows in surprise and Castiel nods. “You wore the cage, I wore the plug,” he says easily, and a less horny Dean would probably stop to wonder when the fuck Cas had time to do _that,_ but as it is, he doesn’t really care. He’s slightly surprised Cas didn’t make him fuck him in the dressing room now, but he must have his reasons. “I had a different scene in mind when we got up this morning, something to do with riding your cock while choking you into near-unconsciousness but—” Castiel shrugs. “—the mood shifted.” 

“I’ll say,” Dean murmurs, taking full advantage of Castiel’s lack of instruction to finger the plug in his ass and pry it out playfully before pushing it back in with intention. Virtually unaffected, Castiel rolls his eyes from above him like a God on high and slaps Dean’s hand away. “I’m still going to ride you,” he says, almost conversationally. “I’m also going to fuck you, later. And in between…” 

He settles in Dean’s lap, muscular thighs heavy over Dean’s own, knees pressed tight against Dean’s hips. His well-toned chest looms teasingly close to where Dean’s mouth is watering to taste it, barely resisting closing his mouth around a nipple as Cas leans over to pick up a small box from the side table before sitting back on his heels. It’s not a fancy or decorative thing, just cardboard and tape, about the size of a matchbox. 

Absently, Dean finds himself running a hand down Cas’ thigh, pulling it away and pushing it into the mattress hopefully before Cas can realize what he’s done. Whether he does or doesn’t, nothing is said about it as Castiel opens the little box and pulls out what looks like a tiny envelope, and color Dean confused, _what the fuck is Cas doing?_

But then Castiel flips the envelope open and extracts something that makes Dean’s heart jump into his throat—a brand-new, straight-edged razor blade. Cas’ eyes flick from the blade’s edge to Dean’s face, his eyes as sharp as the tool he’s holding as he carefully analyzes Dean’s reaction. “I thought perhaps it would be easier to try something that we know you had a positive response to in the moment, when you were already on your knees. And light scarification was also of interest on your kink list, so, it feels apt.” 

Dry-mouthed, Dean nods, maybe not entirely sold but definitely willing to see where this is going. “Relax, Dean,” Castiel says softly, leaning down to press a kiss to Dean’s neck. “It’s important that you know this is not a punishment, this is me giving you something you feel you need. You can slow things down or bring them to a stop anytime you like, and if you do, you won’t be disappointing me. There’s nothing to live up to here but your own expectations for yourself. What is your safeword?” 

Dean has to clear his throat, and in an unprecedented move, Castiel exchanges the razor in his hand for the orange juice, cracking the lid and offering Dean a sip before they begin. Licking the sweetness off of his lips, Dean nods and says, “Impala.” 

“And are you using it?”

Another deep breath. “No,” he replies firmly, clearly, surprised to find that he means it. Dean’s eyes are drawn to the glint of the nearest candle’s flame reflecting off of the metal sitting on top of its little box, but Castiel fits a hand to Dean’s cheek and redirects his gaze to his own face. 

“Focus on me,” he commands, leaning in to kiss Dean slow but thorough, licking his tongue into Dean’s mouth and grinding down in his lap. It’s exactly what Dean needs in the moment, and he finds himself melting into all of Castiel’s touches. This might be the softest Castiel has ever been with him during a scene—in fact, if Dean closes his eyes and lets himself pretend, he could _almost_ buy that they’re a normal couple, about to make love and swap undying declarations of devotion afterwards, whatever it is normal couples do, Dean wouldn’t fucking know. 

But Castiel—he’s _gentle,_ tonight. He threads hands through Dean’s hair, cups him around the neck, works his body up to a needy frenzy with his hands and his hips like the two of them have all the time in the world. Eventually, he slicks up Dean’s cock and pulls his own plug before sinking down on it, settling in Dean’s lap and pulling Dean forward so he can tuck his legs behind, wrapping himself fully around Dean’s torso. 

Once again, Dean takes advantage of the moment, pressing his face into Castiel’s neck and the top of his chest, nipping at his collar bones and leaving open-mouthed kisses on his skin. No marks, because Cas didn’t say he could, but he also didn’t say he couldn’t. For a few minutes, they just rock like that, Dean’s hands finding their way to Castiel’s hips as he circles them, teasing them both, the stimulation and movement not _nearly_ enough to even come close to getting either of them off. 

When it happens, Dean isn’t looking for or even expecting the complete one-eighty Castiel does, though in hindsight, that feels a bit naive on his part. The hand tightening in his hair, yanking his head back—that, at least, is familiar territory, and Dean relishes it, moaning happily as Castiel jerks him around by his roots, dipping down to bite at his neck, _just_ over the line to where it hurts. When he lets go, Castiel immediately drops his hand to wrap it around Dean’s bicep, and it stays there. 

“Color, Dean,” Castiel demands, and Dean, still achingly hard inside him, aroused as hell and fully fired up for whatever comes next, doesn’t so much as blink.

“Green, Sir.” 

“Good boy.” The next sensation is cool and wet on his skin, replacing Cas’ hot palm on his upper arm for just a few brief moments before it returns. “Alcohol swab,” Castiel murmurs softly. “Cleanliness _is_ next to Godliness, you know.” He laughs at himself and then clenches the muscles in his ass intentionally, and not for the first time, Dean wonders what kind of a lunatic his best friend really is.

The first drag of the razor’s edge against Dean’s skin doesn’t feel like much of anything at all. Just a scratch, Dean’s had more painful stubbed toes. Nonetheless, Dean jumps a little, and Castiel pauses what he’s doing to kiss him reassuringly on the mouth. “Color?”

“Still green, Sir,” Dean replies, a little breathlessly, flexing his fingers around Castiel’s hips to ground himself in the moment. He fills his lungs slowly and deliberately as Castiel brings the razor down again, letting the corner of the blade sink into Dean’s skin only _just_ enough to draw pinpricks of blood before pulling it along. 

In Dean’s mind, the conflicting sensations start to war and blur and blend, in a shockingly delicious way that surprises Dean a lot more than he expected. His hips start moving of their own accord, flexing up into his Dom more and more with every stinging swipe of the razor, and he relaxes back, letting Castiel do what he wants, trusting him completely. Cas lets him, doesn’t comment on Dean’s touching or his movements, except to occasionally tell him to keep his arm still, if he’s able. 

The more Cas cuts, the more it hurts and yet, the more excited Dean gets. He doesn’t hold back on his moans and groans, and when tears prick at the corners of his eyes, he lets them fall. A particularly long drag of the razor has him reaching for Cas, winding an arm around his back and gripping his shoulder, pulling that same arm back to reach up and thread his hand in Cas’ hair. The whole thing is so weirdly intense and bizarrely romantic—Cas in his lap, his focused face only inches from Dean’s, the heat building steadily between them and the pain in Dean’s arm becoming layered and complicated, all laced with the pleasure of Cas trying to make him come. 

The superficial stinging in Dean’s bicep turns to a deeper throbbing, and contrasted with the tight, wet heat surrounding his cock, Dean would easily call this _bliss._ In the back of his mind, he even feels _relief._ There are so many things he carries with him, so much guilt over victims and families he couldn’t save, couldn’t help, and it all just builds and builds with _no_ outlet, _no_ escape, _no_ pressure relief valve to help Dean let it all go. 

And yes, right or wrong, on some level Dean _wants_ to be punished for what he views as his failures, his short-comings. This pain, it’s more than an enhanced orgasm to Dean, it’s a fucking benediction, a way to atone, a reason to forgive himself, and he can’t forget that Cas is _giving that to him._

Somehow, as Dean slips further into subspace, Castiel works them down to the bed so that Dean’s no longer leaning against the wall and he has more leverage to ride him. Dean barely even notices when he finishes with the cutting, only feels the hot trickle of blood running down his arm, and it’s so fucking _good,_ he feels so good, so free, so unencumbered for the first time in _so_ very long. 

Castiel goes back to yanking his head back by the hair while he picks up the pace on Dean’s dick, riding him hard and murmuring a very _Cas_ mix of praise and dirty talk that has Dean nearly short-circuiting with arousal and desire and fuck it, _love_. He gasps and reaches back to grab the headboard as his orgasm builds and crests, the burning heat in his arm and the waves of pleasure washing over him making his eyes roll back in his head, making him call out with every ounce of breath he has left and leave him sobbing. 

Cas is merciless then, grabbing Dean by his uninjured bicep as he slides off his softening cock only to haul him up and over, throwing him down on his stomach. “Ass up, shoulders and head down,” Castiel demands and Dean complies as well as he can, still rippling with the aftershocks of his orgasm, still crying openly into the sheets his face is unceremoniously shoved into by Cas’ hand on the back of his head. 

The plug comes out and Cas wastes no time replacing it with his cock, no niceties or time for adjustment, just sliding in all the way to the hilt with what feels like half a bottle of lube slicking the way. He grunts as he fucks Dean hard and fast, making him wail when he strikes his prostate but acting generally indifferent to Dean for the most part. He chases his own pleasure and Dean adores it, loves feeling like Castiel’s using him like a toy when they’re like this. Half-out of his mind, Dean relishes every damn semi-dehumanizing moment of Cas nearly ignoring him completely, even as his eyes still leak and his arm oozes blood onto the crisp, white sheets. 

At the last second, when Castiel’s tensing up behind him and moaning as he starts to come, he grabs Dean’s newly-marked arm and squeezes. The action brings a new rush of tears to Dean’s eyes and causes him to cry out with yet _another_ conflicting wave of pain and pleasure as Cas’ cock rams repeatedly into his prostate at the same time. Valiantly, Dean’s dick twitches and blurts another round of cum out onto the sheets, and he’s never been more regretful that the refractory period is a thing that exists. 

At his back, Castiel slumps forward, giant hand coming to rest between Dean’s shoulder blades as he struggles to catch his breath and presumably, his bearings. When he slides from Dean’s ass, he pauses, and almost as an afterthought fumbles around in the sheets for the plug and shoves it back in, which _damn._ Dean’s dick takes an interest in that (incredibly hot) possessive move too, holy hell, and the idea that Cas’ spend can’t leak out. 

When Castiel turns him over again, he’s gentle, and the look on his face is slightly anxious and concerned. “Hello, Dean,” he says softly as Dean blinks up at him, desperately hoping Cas doesn’t want to _talk_ about this because _words_ are not a thing that are a possibility for him right this second. Hoping to ward that off, Dean does the only thing he can think of, which is to flash Castiel the biggest grin he can muster, and along with it, shoot him an enthusiastic thumbs up. Surprised, Castiel chuckles and pats his flank.

“You still have to drink your juice,” he says. “And I need to tend to your injuries.” Dean nods while stifling a yawn, accepting Cas’ help to sit up against a stack of pillows, enough to drink the juice without dumping it all over his face. He uses his right arm to do so, since Cas is busy examining his left, dabbing iodine from the first-aid kit in a strangely specific pattern, which makes Dean abjectly curious, despite the exhaustion he feels and the impending hormone crash that is about to insist he nap by simply turning out the lights.

“Can I see it?” he asks gruffly, tipping his chin in the direction of his bicep, which Castiel is currently obscuring with a piece of blood-riddled gauze. 

“Of course,” he answers. “Though, just to warn you, as far as scarification is concerned, I’m not sure this one will take. I used a very light hand and honestly, I believe these marks will heal without leaving any reminders behind.” 

The way Castiel looks at Dean when he says this makes Dean wary of what he’s going to find on his arm, but when Castiel lifts the gauze, Dean can’t help but draw in a sharp breath. _Holy hell is right._

It’s a tracing of Castiel’s hand, the outline of where his fingers were wrapped around Dean’s bicep. The fresh cuts are thin and angry, most of them still oozing droplets of blood, the skin reddened and irritated around the actual wounds. It’s an incredible sight, and the residual burn-throb Dean feels makes his chest a little tight, makes his mind spin with how much he _likes_ it. Dean can hardly believe how much he likes it. Cas’ handprint, cut into his skin. It better not fuckin’ fade.

“I hope it does scar,” Dean says, eyes still glued to the way the marks look marring his skin. It’s beautiful, in its own right, and Dean can’t believe he thinks that. “Otherwise, you’ll have to do it over again.” He winks as Castiel looks up at him in surprise, a smile spreading across his face and—if Dean isn’t mistaken—a slight blush. He’s so stunning and perfect, fucked-out and exhausted himself, and Dean _so badly_ wants to keep him. 

He glances down at his arm. At least now, he’ll get to keep a part of him.

Another yawn from Dean breaks their reverent moment, and Castiel quickly resumes what he was doing before Dean’s request. He spreads antibiotic cream meticulously over the cuts he made and bandages Dean up with expert hands that have done this so many times before, both in and out of the bedroom. Fuck, but Dean’s _never_ going to be able to look at Cas in the back of an ambulance the same way again.

“Thank you, Cas,” Dean murmurs, only after Castiel has shut off the lights and slid back into bed with him, gathering him up and holding him close, careful not to press down on his arm. “Not only for… what we just did. But for not judging me, not treating me like shit for being into all this stuff. For feeling like I need it. I just—I know how some people would think that me liking what we just did is really fucked up.”

“I am not ‘some people’,” Castiel interjects fiercely. “You are aware of who I am and where you are…?”

“Shh, ugh. I’m trying to—” Dean wiggles around in annoyance and frustration at Cas’ side, glad that it’s dark and Castiel can’t see his glaring face.

“I understand. Go on,” Cas says, and Dean doubts it, so he sighs. 

“Dom mode off, just for a minute, opposite of this morning with the collar?”

“Alright,” Castiel agrees.

For a moment, Dean struggles with what to say and how to phrase it so as not to come off _too_ obvious or too pathetic. “You’re a good friend, Cas,” Dean settles on. “You’re, you know. You’re my person.” It’s a monumental effort just to get that out, so Dean manages to forgive himself for not doing better, for not saying _more._ Anyhow, Cas seems to get the gist, as his arm around Dean’s body tightens and he drops his face into Dean’s hair. 

“Thank you,” he mutters, suspiciously heavy in tone and barely audible. “I needed to hear that tonight.” 

Neither of them speaks again after that as they both drift off, but Dean feels Castiel relax beneath him in a way he usually only does after he’s sunk into a very deep sleep. It’s all so strangely comforting, so starkly contrasted with the way they played and got each other off earlier, and Dean—if he’s being honest, and when did _that_ become a theme in his own mind?—has never been happier in his entire life. 

Nothing has changed between them, and yet for some reason, Dean feels a spark of hope about the future he’s never let himself consider before. And he hangs on.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I convince you that Cas can be a sweet, gentle Dom and still dabble in pain play? They're not mutually exclusive :) While this is very likely the first and last time the sharp play will appear, he's not always going to be so sweet, ahem.  
> Also, if you think they're recklessly crossing a lot of lines and boundaries for two idiots who couldn't even figure out they both wanted to spend the night together a few weeks ago, uh, they are. 
> 
> Next time: Cas POV, a little timeskip, Dean & Cas at work, strippers and beer, Dean doesn't know how to behave in public, Cas is secretly pleased about that (for more than one reason).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel pushes Dean's limits, in the best way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: alcohol/drinking/partying, strip clubs and strippers, bratty Dean, jealous!Cas  
> Sex-related warnings: mentions of cock cages, Dean in panties, spanking, vibrating plugs, semi-public sex, accidental exhibitionism (someone walks in), bottom Dean, orgasm denial, edging, teasing, lapdances, sex toys.

For the next few months, as far as Castiel is concerned, life is pretty damn perfect. Having a regular, reliable outlet in the bed(play)room for his frustrations and failings goes a long way towards stabilizing Castiel’s emotions, and it shows. Having a sub who needs him, who Castiel can pour his heart and soul into caring for and watch as Dean benefits from all the things they do together, makes him feel like a whole new person. His nightmares let up, his overall mood improves, and the number of times he sinks into a melancholy funk over memories and situations that were out of his control drops significantly. 

The weeks fly by, one after another, the holidays coming and going in their usual fashion. This year, Castiel speaks to his brother and his niece by phone (they travel to see Jimmy’s in-laws in Ohio) to wish them well, doesn't hear from his other brother, and spends all the special days in the company of the Winchesters, Chief Singer, and the Harvelles. It would appear that he’s become an adopted member of the family at this point, and for that, Castiel is exceedingly grateful. That may be completely independent of Dean, actually—the little ragtag group he’s fallen in with was stitched together from the same lack of having anywhere else to go that Castiel boasts in his own life. 

Still, being accepted into it means sitting next to Dean at a holiday table, laughing and feeling included, exchanging presents in front of Ellen’s fireplace on Christmas Eve and then falling asleep in Dean’s lap with _Elf_ playing on the TV. All that instead of spending the night drunk and alone in his too-big, empty apartment. Things could be worse.

By the time February rolls around and Sam’s wedding looms large in front of all of them, Castiel could almost talk himself into believing he and Dean are in a pattern that could hold indefinitely. That, against all odds, this thing they’ve built _might_ be satisfying in a way that could actually _be_ enough for both of them. At the very least, Dean hasn’t given him any reason to think he doesn’t feel the same. More importantly, Dean seems to be benefiting from their arrangement in the same way Castiel is—he’s happier, healthier (mentally, at least—internally, Castiel’s fairly certain Dean’s arteries are filled with bacon), and at the end of the day, that’s what matters most.

With the two of them settling into a routine, it also feels to Castiel— _dare he say it?_ —almost easy. The way their lives intertwine so naturally; with work and play and their respective but overlapping social circles. The way he and Dean have _always_ fit together so effortlessly—it all just _works_. Strange as it may sound, his relationship with Dean really does feel meant to be. In fact, if Castiel didn’t know better, he might be inclined to call it fate or destiny, or something equally ridiculous and non-existent that he definitely doesn’t believe in… except, it’s hard not to, every time he looks at Dean. 

Well, not _right_ now, perhaps, since Dean is driving him up the proverbial fucking wall, and he’d sooner knock him out cold just to shut him up than pee on him if he was on fire.

It’s four in the morning, and the fire scene Castiel is coordinating the EMS response for has been raging for over two hours. As if sitting outside in the dead of night, taking blood pressures and listening to lung sounds on endless repeat while the temperature hovers just below freezing isn’t enough, Castiel’s also has _Dean_ and his attitude to deal with. On top of that, the house system at the station activating for the call _also_ interrupted a _very_ pleasant dream and the kind of deep sleep Castiel rarely achieves while on duty. Being jolted awake _and_ out of a mental scene in which he had Dean tied up and making the most delicious noises while Castiel dripped wax all over his body—it was _jarring,_ to say the least. 

Hours later, those images _still_ refuse to leave his head, which isn’t helpful when Castiel _needs_ to focus, needs to pay attention and ensure he isn’t sending at-risk firefighters back in to combat the blaze when their bodies can’t handle it. Fire rehab at a low-risk scene like this is dull as all get-out, but it’s necessary and important too, as so many boring things are. EMS isn’t always excitement and glamour.

In addition to boring, Castiel’s job is also occasionally infuriating. Like, for instance, when he’s the paramedic in charge and he has a bull-headed firefighter who sits down for a routine vital sign check, only to get benched for having a too-high blood pressure and pulse. _Fifteen minutes_ of rest is all that’s being asked of him, but the walking hero-complex won’t just _accept_ that he _isn’t fucking Superman,_ and that sometimes his body needs a damn break. 

“There are three other members of your crew sitting here with you,” Castiel argues, his face firmly set in a scowl as he goes physically toe-to-toe and chest-to-chest with Dean. “You’ve all been inside that blaze for nearly an hour, you need to _rest._ ” For some bizarre reason, Dean seems to be under the false impression tonight that he can intimidate Castiel into giving him his way. “You don’t see any of them complaining or talking back. Stop being a stubborn asshole and sit on your ass until your heart calms down!” 

“ _They_ aren’t Lieutenants,” Dean sasses back, unfazed by Castiel’s proximity in a way he wouldn’t _dare_ to pull in private, and Castiel’s warring thoughts in his head both love it and hate it. Mostly, he wishes he could slap Dean across the face before turning him over his knee, but he supposes keeping his job is worth tabling that particular inclination for the time being.

Still, it’s tempting. Dean is a _sight_ —red-faced and sweaty, his hair sticking up wildly in all directions as he holds his helmet casually underneath his arm. His bunker jacket is tossed onto the floor of the ambulance, draped halfway over the truck’s license plate in the way it falls down through the open back doors. Without it, Dean is left in his bunker pants and suspenders with a plain white t-shirt underneath, and despite the extreme chill, his bare arms are a rosy color from working inside the burning building. “Cas, a hose line to the third floor might be the difference between these people having homes to come back to or not.” 

“A fifteen-minute break might be the difference between you spending the night in the hospital or not,” Castiel challenges, raising his eyebrows and holding Dean’s eye contact without flinching. 

“Wowwee!” Castiel’s niece, Claire, pipes up from where she’s sprawled out with one leg over the arm of a camp chair nearby, taking her temporary benching from Cas much better than Dean. Which is really something, since Claire is frequently a disrespectful little shit (just like her father, Castiel’s brother), though Castiel loves her endlessly. “Rawr. You could cut that sexual tension with a knife.” She laughs and Ash, also benched beside her, joins in so enthusiastically he nearly falls off of his chair.

Ignoring them all, Dean just narrows his eyes and tips his head, his unspoken message to Castiel clear. But this is Castiel’s _job,_ and neither Benny nor Bobby is going to be so dumb as to overrule a medic who says a firefighter needs a break, so Castiel’s unclear why Dean even thinks there’s a battle to fight here. After another tense minute, Dean sighs and relents, sinking down onto the truck’s bumper and ripping the mic for his radio off of the belt loop where it’s been clipped since he shucked his jacket. 

“Lieutenant Fifteen to Fire Command,” he says, after depressing the mic button and waiting for the channel to click open. Benny answers in short order, and Dean rolls his eyes. “I’ll be with EMS for fifteen,” he says grudgingly. 

“Ten-four,” crackles the reply, and Dean slumps back against the truck, folding his arms across his chest, defeated. Totally because it’s his job and not to rub his moral victory in at all, Castiel makes his way to Dean’s side and drapes a hospital blanket around his shoulders.

“There, there,” he says blandly, biting back his smirk as Dean glares. In his peripheral vision, Castiel’s attention is caught by another team entering the apartment building with an additional hose line. “Look at that,” he says. “A line for the third floor.” 

The bottle of water in Dean’s hand crackles as he crushes it into his palm. “You’re such a dick.” 

“I’ll remember you said that,” Castiel tells him, squeezing his shoulder as he uses it for leverage to climb up into the ambulance and retrieve some more linens. “Later.” Thrillingly, Dean’s eyes go slightly wide and he drops his head, shifting against the bumper in a way that Castiel recognizes easily as Dean feeling arousal while wearing a cage. _Delightful._

“Whoa,” Ash says suddenly, and Castiel looks over his shoulder to find the mullet-sporting firefighter leaning forward in his chair. His eyes are narrowed and he’s moving his hand back and forth as if he’s trying to suss out the energy between Castiel and Dean. “When did the two of you end the mating dance and get physical?” 

Having picked that very moment to take a drink from his semi-crushed bottle, Dean sputters water and Castiel barks out a laugh. Unsurprisingly, Claire comes to their “rescue”, because mocking Castiel is one of her favorite past times. “Are you serious? Where do you live, under a rock? They’ve been fucking for months,” she declares, only somewhat derisively.

“Claire,” Castiel snaps. “Don’t be crass.” 

“Sorry, Uncle Cas,” she murmurs as she sips her own water, apparently appropriately chastised.

It’s Dean’s turn to laugh, relaxing back against the truck and shaking his bottle in her direction. “You got owned,” he says, amused.

“No more than you,” Claire shoots back without missing a beat. “At least my girlfriend has the decency to get me off when she fucks me over like that. Ooh, burn.” She smirks and Dean blinks, clearly taken aback. 

“Claire,” Castiel admonishes again, but he’s weak and has to turn away, busying himself with pretending to rearrange supplies in one of the cabinets so that Dean doesn’t see him fighting hard not to smile. 

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend,” Dean mutters petulantly.

“Fine, fine,” Claire says with a sigh, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “Uncle Cas, if I stop teasing your _not_ boyfriend over how whipped he is, can I go?” 

Jumping down from the ambulance box, Castiel dons his stethoscope and goes through the motions of checking Claire’s vital signs once more. He records them in the neat list he’s keeping that’s secured to his clipboard, updating Claire’s column just below her previous measurements and her name, and then nods. “Be careful,” he instructs. “Your father will have my head if something happens to you. You know that he still asks me to bench you for entire fires, on principle.”

Claire just shrugs as she pulls her long blonde hair back into a ponytail, slips her bunker jacket back on, and dons her helmet. “He’s a good dad.” She stands on her toes to kiss Castiel’s cheek, and he pretends he’s not entirely warmed by it. “So are you. Later. Later, Hasselhoff. Enjoy riding the pine.” As Claire steps over the leaking hose line and disappears around an engine parked between them and the actual fire, Castiel sighs. 

“I’m not whipped,” Dean protests from behind him, and Castiel raises his eyes to the sky. Lord help him. Is it six a.m. yet? 

***

_06:30 A.M_

Much as Castiel enjoys having Dean in his space and would never, _ever_ turn him away, he’s secretly relieved when Dean doesn’t come home with him in the morning. The night was long and cold and exhausting for both of them, and uninterrupted sleep is a necessity, considering what they have planned for later. Still, as Castiel hauls his overnight bag from the warmth of the EMS station out to his running car, the way his breath puffs clouds into the freezing morning air makes the quiet of the still-sleeping street feel that much more lonely. 

All around him, in row homes and apartment buildings, families are just beginning to stir, waking up to a new day and each other. Secretly, he wants that, but has no idea how to go about getting it. For Castiel, he always feels least alone when he’s with Dean, secondarily when he’s working or out with his EMS family. More and more lately, returning to his empty apartment feels less like sanctuary, less of a reprieve from the violent, hectic hustle and bustle of the world. These days, it feels more like a punishment for demiromantic failures who don’t fit in well enough to just find someone they can tolerate and _not_ end up alone. 

The door to the station bangs open behind him, sent flying into the outside brick wall with a _crash_ by the sole of Charlie’s boot. She staggers out, full-handed with the stack of books, her laptop and charger, and the fluffy blanket and pillow she insists on carting with her to every shift, blinking tiredly against the low-set morning sun. After pausing to indulge an enormous yawn, complete with eye-closing and some really dramatic noises, Charlie waves awkwardly without removing either arm from around her pile. “See ya, Cas,” she mumbles sleepily.

“Are you alright to drive home?” 

“Taking the bus,” Charlie replies. “Always take the bus. Cars are for flush paramedics, I can barely pay rent in this city on my salary.” 

Castiel scrunches up his face and narrows his eyes at her. “You regularly skim off of the RNC’s fundraising efforts _and_ you live in a rent-controlled walk-up with your ‘mother’,” he reminds her, putting the last word in air quotes. Charlie’s mother passed away years ago, but her landlord doesn’t need to know that. 

“True,” Charlie replies brightly. “Still, girl’s gotta save for Comic-con.” 

“Get in,” Castiel tells her, gesturing to his passenger seat as he slides in behind the wheel.

“Well, if you _insist._ Girl’s also gotta save her strength for da club tonight!!” 

During their ride, Charlie seems to get her second wind, chattering on about Sam’s impending bachelor party and how awesome it is that he and Jess are having a combined outing that still includes a trip to the strip club. By the time he lets her off a good ten blocks from his own place, Castiel’s even more exhausted. Oblivious to his state, Charlie thanks him and waves goodbye enthusiastically, still yelling about plans for the night when Castiel drives off. 

Finally back inside his apartment, Castiel gets as far as his living room couch, stripping off his multiple shirts and dropping them carelessly on the floor before collapsing down onto the cushions. It’s just one of those mornings, and he’s not in the mood to go even one step further. With his duty pants on and boots still firmly in place on his feet, Castiel passes out, an arm slung across his face and a leg trailing over the side of the couch. 

_Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!_

Groaning, Castiel unsticks his arm from his face to rub fingers into his still-heavy with sleep eyes. If ever there was a day to turn over and let unconsciousness take him again, this would be it, but unfortunately for Castiel, he has plans. _Stupid plans._

_Beep! Beep! Beep!_

The alarm on Castiel’s phone is relentless and irritating, buzzing against the glass of his coffee table what feels like a _very_ distant two feet away. Without so much as opening his eyes, Castiel throws an arm out to grab for and blindly turn it off. Unfortunately, his hand never makes it to the table, colliding instead firmly and with _oomph_ into something that feels worryingly flesh and bone-like. _Oh, dear._

“Oof, oh, fuck!” Dean grunts as Castiel’s eyes fly open and he bolts upright, finding his lovely sub kneeling and naked save for those _gorgeous_ lacy green panties and his collar, and Castiel is beginning to wonder if those things are cursed items. Dean is wincing, pressing with the tips of his fingers at his cheekbone and around his left eye socket gingerly, because apparently, Castiel has just cold-clocked him in the face. 

“Oh, Dean,” he says sympathetically, reaching out to cup Dean’s face and tip it towards the dying evening sunlight for better examination. No red or purple is blossoming beneath the skin just yet, so with any luck Castiel didn’t hit him as hard as the impact felt against his knuckles. _Oops._ “I am so sorry, darling. Come with me, let’s put some ice on that quickly so that it doesn’t bruise.” 

Once he’s up off of the couch, Castiel bends down to scoop an arm underneath Dean’s bicep in order to help him stand. Dean is a bit slow to straighten and his knees both crack, which suggests to Castiel that he’s been kneeling there for quite some time. “This was a very considerate and welcome surprise,” he offers, an ironic little smile playing over his lips as Dean glares up at him, struggling to get vertical. 

“I spend an hour on my knees tryin’ to apologize for my shitty attitude last night and I still get punched in the face,” Dean grumbles half-heartedly before gesturing to his own ass. As previously noted, it’s beautifully encased in lace and silk and it flexes as Dean limps ahead of Castiel towards the kitchen. “Wrapped up your present all pretty and everything.” 

“I adore it,” Castiel assures him, pulling a bag of frozen peas out of his freezer and wrapping it up in a dishtowel. Instead of handing the bundle over to Dean’s outstretched palm, Castiel crowds him up against the counter and steps between his legs, holding the ice to the side of Dean’s face himself. Difficult as always, Dean makes a face at the contact and tips his head away, but Castiel fusses and insists, squeezing Dean’s ass cheek with his free hand in warning when he doesn’t immediately comply. 

“Alright, alright,” Dean mutters, covering Castiel’s hand with his own until he slips it out and lets Dean hold the ice himself. “Only because I don’t need to hear the jokes Christian will definitely make if he sees me walk in with a shiner.” 

“I will never understand what Sam sees in him,” Castiel agrees, still fully invading Dean’s space, both hands on his ass now and mouth trailing over Dean’s neck and collarbone with increasing interest. “Speaking of which, if you’d woken me when you arrived, we would have actually had time for me to give these gorgeous panties the attention they deserve. Unfortunately for you, I had that alarm set for the absolute last minute, which means that we need to be out the door in…” Castiel pauses and pulls back from Dean’s skin long enough to glance down at his watch. “Less than half an hour.”

The pout that appears on Dean’s face is all the confirmation Castiel needs to feel like he might be open to another outside-the-playroom scene. They haven’t done one since the tuxedo fittings, even though Castiel’s been dying to. Especially since—as far as he’s concerned—that whole thing was pretty mild, and Dean got off extremely easily. Figuratively and literally.

Time to up the ante.

He licks his lips before glancing the scarce few inches up at Dean, unsurprised to find him staring back intently. “Are you up for an uncollared scene tonight?” 

The change in Dean is both immediate and positive—his entire face lights up. “Absolutely, Sir,” he replies. 

Castiel opens his mouth and then closes it again, thoughtful. “Actually,” he says, tapping a finger against his lips as he steps back and looks Dean over. “Humor me. Take your collar off for a moment and let me see it.” Dean complies without hesitation, handing the strip of leather over easily, likely since he knows that it doesn’t actually mark an ending to their dynamic. In turn, Castiel takes Dean’s wrist and wraps the collar around twice, securing it like a bracelet. “Hmm,” he says, intrigued. “I’m not exactly a fountain of fashion knowledge, but this seems relatively on-trend. And you do wear jewelry, on occasion.” 

“I do,” Dean agrees. “Sir.” 

“Thoughts?”

“I like it, Sir. I’m on board. Thank you, Sir.” 

“Good,” Castiel acknowledges with a smile and another squeeze to Dean’s ass before he steps away definitively. “Then retrieve your plug from the drawer, go into the bathroom, clean yourself up, and get ready. I expect those panties to be on underneath your jeans when you’re done.” 

Watching Dean scurry away with poorly-concealed amusement, Castiel leans back against his countertop for all of thirty seconds before realizing his error. “Fuck,” he murmurs to himself, looking down at his bare chest and the remainder of his duty uniform that he _still_ has on from last night. A quick whiff under his arm has him recoiling, and he sent Dean to the only bathroom his apartment has to offer. With a sigh, he heads into his bedroom and raps on the bathroom door. “Quickly, Dean,” he calls out, not sticking around to try and decipher Dean’s muffled reply.

 _Oh well,_ Castiel thinks as he rifles through his drawers, trying to find clothing that’s both club-appropriate and also guaranteed to rile Dean up. Strip joints aren’t really Castiel’s thing, but screwing with Dean all night _definitely_ is. Sam will forgive them if they’re slightly late, anyway. Whenever he and Dean turn up somewhere together lately, Sam always gets it into his head that they’re one step closer to declaring their undying love and tying the knot. _Sam_ clearly doesn’t know his own brother very well.

Not that Castiel thinks for one second that Sam _wants_ to know all of the dirty details _he’s_ tucked away regarding what makes Dean tick. Smiling wickedly, Castiel tucks the remote for the plug that’s innocuously replaced Dean’s usual one in its former place in the armoire drawer. He doubts very much that Dean even noticed a difference when he picked it up. Without question, the results for this will be _well_ worth their little delay. 

Fifteen toe-tapping minutes later, Dean emerges from the steamy bathroom flushed and damp, wearing the ripped jeans Castiel _loves_ on him and a plain white Henley that hugs his toned biceps and chest like a dream. The necklace Sam gave him when they were kids hangs on a leather cord around his neck, and his emerald green collar looks—as Castiel suspected it would—fittingly stylish around his wrist. With his hair spiked up and a brand new-looking pair of black boots on his feet, the whole package is positively mouth-watering. 

Briefly, Castiel considers whether Sam would still forgive them if they were _very_ late, subsequently forcing himself to dismiss the pantheon of ideas that parade through his mind of all the ways he could ruin Dean’s outfit before they even get out the door. 

What he’s thinking must show on his face, because Dean smirks—he knows he looks good. Castiel would punish him for the insolence _,_ but they _are_ running behind, and besides, his revenge is already in his hands, in more ways than one. Knowing that, instead of acknowledging the attitude, Castiel brushes by Dean without a word and shuts himself inside the bathroom. He showers and shaves in record time before quickly throwing on his own clothes and gelling up his hair. 

Checking his look in the mirror, it’s Castiel’s turn to smirk. Dark jeans, a collared, dark gray button-down with the sleeves rolled up, topped off with a solid black waistcoat and a deep red tie tucked into it. Forearms, check. Chest and waist, check. Ass, check. 

Dean is toast. 

Spritzing a little of the cologne he’s noticed that Dean tends to sniff on his skin with heightened interest, Castiel jams his feet back into his duty boots (because Dean loves those, too, but also they’re already dirty from work so a strip club floor probably won’t make them worse). He laces them up tight and then strides out into the living room like he hasn’t the faintest clue why Dean’s jaw nearly hits the floor. 

“ _Cas,"_ Dean whines, hands tucked between his thighs as he squirms on Castiel’s couch. Thankfully, his face still looks bruise-free. 

“ _Cas?”_ Castiel repeats with intention, his tone incredulous and his eyebrow raised challengingly. 

“Sir,” Dean amends, easily chastised and shrinking in on himself slightly, while still eyeballing Castiel’s form with open desire. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

Checking his watch for the umpteenth time, Castiel sighs. They _are_ already late, what’s another few minutes? “You know,” he says, pacing slowly across the room until he comes to a stop directly in front of Dean, where he turns on his heel to face him. “I let you slide with that _often,_ don’t I?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Dean mumbles, swallowing visibly, his cheeks turning pink. 

“And you’ll be calling me _Cas_ all evening, by mutual agreement. That’s a _gift,_ from me to you. As such, you would think you’d have respect enough for me to not do it here.” Castiel taps his foot as Dean raises his eyes guiltily. “Either we can end the scene now, or you can accept your punishment.” 

Right away, Dean shakes his head and blows out a breath of what is very clearly relief, just as Castiel knew he would. “Oh, I—Sir, I accept whatever you see fit to give me. Sir. Please.” 

_So predictable. So wonderfully willing._ “From your mouth…” Castiel says with a shrug, like he couldn’t care less ( _he cares)._ “Alright, as you wish. Stand up, pull your jeans down to your thighs and bend over, hands on the arm of the couch.” Dean complies swiftly and Castiel struggles to hold back a groan of arousal when the panties appear once again. Stretched tight over the curve of Dean’s ass, the jewel-toned fabric accentuates the freckles on his skin, making them stand out. Adorable and enticing, all in one.

“Safeword,” Castiel requests softly, running gentle fingers over one of Dean’s cheeks, dipping down under the satin just to feel the plug nestled in place there. This whole scene makes Castiel feel insanely possessive over Dean, and very pleased with himself that he’s found a way (an excuse) to mark him up before going out in public. 

“Impala,” Dean replies dutifully, his words slightly muffled by the way he has his face buried in his own arms. 

“And are you using it?”

“No, Sir.” 

The first smack to each cheek is reasonably gentle, just warming Dean’s skin up. Castiel loves this part, would linger here a lot longer if they didn’t have places to be. Alas. Five on each side—that’s what Castiel decided on before Dean even accepted his punishment, and it’s what he doles out now. When it comes to strength of impact, he doesn’t hold back today—Dean can take it, he’s practically a pro by now—and after ten, his own hand is smarting something fierce. 

When Castiel’s finished, both of Dean’s cheeks are beautifully red, stunningly contrasted against the pretty green panties, and it takes _every fucking ounce_ of Castiel’s self-restraint and control of both his body and mind to stop himself from yanking Dean’s plug and taking him right then and there. God knows, Dean wouldn’t protest. 

In the end, it’s the fact that this was supposed to be a punishment—a _deterrent_ even—for Dean that stops him, but Castiel’s still slightly regretful. By his own estimation, there’s less than a five percent chance they’re going to make it back to this apartment tonight without him coming at _least_ once, preferably inside Dean and hopefully while finally getting his hands on those damn panties. Castiel indulges in the possibilities that lay ahead regarding that very thing while he considers whether to put gel on Dean’s ass (no), ultimately yanking him to his feet from behind and tucking Dean back into his jeans himself. 

The cock ring he was wearing last night is gone, Castiel can’t help noticing, but he did say Dean could take it off before going to sleep this morning. In truth, _not_ having it on will likely make this night much harder for Dean, which is interesting, and not something Castiel is going to point out. He’s anxious to see what Dean does with it.

Adorably, Dean gasps a little when Castiel turns him around, but goes pliant when Cas fists a hand in his hair and tugs him into a pretty intense, brutal kiss that’s mostly Castiel’s tongue in his mouth and teeth against his bottom lip. The effect is pleasing to Castiel’s eye when he pulls away—Dean’s still plenty put together but _just_ mussed enough that a discerning eye could guess what he’s been up to.

Tonight, Castiel’s feeling reckless. Most of their friends know by now that he and Dean are hooking up and Castiel _wants_ people to notice, wants them to ask. Wants them to be aware that in nearly every way that matters, Dean is _his._

Fuck propriety. 

***

As it turns out, Sam did not forgive them for being late _quite_ so easily. In fact, when Castiel and Dean didn’t show up at the meeting spot outside the Winchesters’ apartment building for a full half an hour _after_ they were supposed to be there _and_ neither of them was answering their phones, Sam had the rented party bus leave them behind. 

That alone was enough to wreck the good mood Dean had been in, sending him into a spiral of moping and grumbling that Castiel tires of _extremely_ quickly. It’s nearly enough to prompt him to bust out the secret weapon in his pocket, but they _are_ driving and Castiel isn’t interested in spending the remainder of his evening being pried off of whatever tree and this bunch of metal have been forcibly wrapped around.

“Charlie doesn’t drink, Dean,” Castiel finally interjects with a heavy sigh, interrupting a rant about Sam expecting Dean to leave his Baby somewhere downtown overnight for “just anyone” to come along and “violate”. 

The wrinkles in Dean’s forehead deepen and he looks honestly confused. “So?” 

“Sooo, she can drive us home. Back to my place.” Castiel corrects his misstep quickly and casually and thankfully, Dean doesn’t pick up on it. Or at least, he doesn’t say so if he does.

When Castiel looks over again, Dean is still scowling, but he doesn’t look quite so miserable and Castiel recognizes that the night might be salvaged yet. If not, the hell with it, _he_ will stay sober and drive the damn car home. “Fine,” Dean grumbles eventually. “I’ll find her when we get there, make sure she’s cool with that.” 

“She’ll be the one buried beneath the largest pile of ladies, of that I am sure,” Castiel replies mildly before turning his attention back out the window. 

As they’re pulling into the club’s parking lot, Dean suddenly clears his throat, his tone taking on that particular hesitant twang that it does when he knows he’s about to say something Castiel won’t like. Well, when he knows he’s about to say something Castiel won’t like _and_ he’s not excited about it. Let’s face it, sometimes Dean is an asshole. 

Lucky for Dean, this is not one of those times.

“You do know that this is my ex’s club, right?”

“Suzy works here?” Castiel’s slightly surprised, but not overly put out. Dean’s past is his own business, it’s not as if either of them thought the other was a pristine, blushing virgin when they started hooking up. 

“Yea, well.” Dean pulls the key out of the ignition and fiddles with it in one hand before shrugging. “Not a lot of choice around here. Pretty sure this is the only club within fifty miles where you aren’t risking an STD just by walking in.” That, Castiel can’t argue with. He knows of at least two more strip joints—one in the depths of the city and one on the outskirts—but both have a reputation for unsavory activities occurring on the premises. Castiel himself has taken several overdoses out of the bathrooms in both places and responded to at least one stabbing. 

Regardless, Suzy being here tonight doesn’t bother him. If anything, he’s much more surprised by the strip club’s proximity to the BDSM club he’s frequented on rare occasions, and is busy wondering if there’s any overlap in clientele. The idea that Dean is nervous because he _wants_ to flirt with Suzy, or because he’s concerned about Suzy flirting with him—none of that so much as registers, never mind fazes Castiel in the least, but Castiel is practical in that way. If Dean wanted to be with Suzy, he would undoubtedly still be with her. If he wanted boring, vanilla sex with a hot female stripper, he wouldn’t have thrown it away when he had it grinding in his lap. What is there to be jealous _of?_ For Castiel, it’s easy as anything to shrug Dean’s warning off and to head inside. 

Somehow, none of those very common sense-infused, very _logical_ thoughts translate when Castiel actually sees Suzy—mostly naked and with her ass as high as heaven in her stiletto heels—straddling Dean where he sits in his chair next to Sam.

It’s less than an hour into the party at this point and Sam, drunk and happy as he is, was already completely over Castiel and Dean’s fashionably late entrance by the time they made it. Tucked back into the booth next to Dean’s chair, Jess is perched on Sam’s lap, their friends scattered around them, all laughing and talking and oblivious to Castiel plotting the murder of a stripper over at the bar. 

He’d only even come _over_ here to surprise Dean with a glass of expensive whiskey, and now he’s regretting it. Castiel supposes he’ll never know what would have happened had he been sitting next to Dean, perhaps with their ankles intertwined beneath the table, when _Suzy_ came over to say hello. Would Dean have introduced him as his… his what? They aren’t boyfriends. Castiel scratches his head, completely aware that he’s being unfair and petulant, and all of the many things he regularly scolds Dean for being. 

Instead of acting like an adult, he gulps the thirty-five dollar glass of whiskey in front of him like a two dollar shot and pulls the remote free from his pocket. The club is dark but relatively airy and cool, not overly sticky or hot or smelly. Castiel’s glad for that as he tries his best to melt back into the shadows at the side of the bar, hoping none of _Suzy’s_ probable sticky-sweet perfume or her glittery sweat will cling to Dean once she’s gone. 

Across the room, Candy— _Suzy—_ ’s hips undulate in Dean’s lap as her arms wrap lazily over his shoulders and around his neck, breaking the no-touching rule so casually and intimately, like it’s nothing. Like Dean is something special _to her,_ so he can. 

A semi-drunk Castiel sees red, especially when Dean’s head tips back just slightly, _seductively,_ to make eye contact with his ex and smile, his hand on the small of her back. 

With a roll of his eyes, Castiel switches the remote in his hand to “on,” cranks the voltage up, and watches with barely concealed glee as Dean jerks in his chair and sends Chastity-Cinnamon-whatever-her-name-is tumbling down onto the floor. 

Feeling merciful, Castiel dials back the intensity on the vibrating butt plug as Dean doubles over, struggling to wheeze out an apology and simultaneously help Tiffany Amber Annoying back to her feet. As Castiel cocks his head to the side and swivels on his stool in amusement, Dean sends the dazed stripper on her way before whipping his head around the room until his eyes land on Castiel, narrowing dangerously. _Busted._

Before Castiel can so much as grin back at him, a redheaded blur appears in front of his face, forcing Castiel’s eyes to blink and refocus. It takes him several seconds to do so, his vision not quite as clear as it was when he and Dean walked into the bar. Whether that’s from jealousy or whiskey or a lethal combination of the two, Castiel can’t be entirely certain. 

“Hiya!” Charlie says brightly, fixing him with a knowing look and bouncing her eyebrows as she gestures to the remote. Castiel glances down at it guiltily, having failed to conceal the device in his pocket swiftly enough to escape her keen notice. “Petty revenge? One step away from a public claiming, there. Hmm, you never seemed like the jealous type to me, but it’s always the quiet ones.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Psh, save it, Castiel,” Charlie interrupts in a huff as she slides onto the stool next to him and waves down the bartender. “Two of whatever the fruitiest, most ridiculous thing on the menu is, please,” she orders before turning her attention back to Cas. “Listen. There’s not a thing about battery-operated sex toys your girl doesn’t know about. For both of our sakes, let’s assume I’m telling the truth and leave it at that.”

“Fair enough,” Castiel agrees with a nod, flipping the remote to its lowest setting and tucking it away. Once again he finds himself grateful for the low lighting, hoping it’s enough to mask his rising blush at being called out.

“So?” Charlie persists, and as much as he could use an ear, she’s Dean’s friend too, so Castiel decides to play dumb.

“It’s just a game,” he deflects. “You know Dean and I…” He trails off as the bartender sets two tall hurricane glasses filled with blue and purple swirled liquid _plus_ what appears to be a sampling of every fruit the bar has on offer, and then some. It’s delicately topped with a colorful little umbrella. 

“Oh, I _know,_ ” Charlie assures him, rolling her own eyes and patting the bar with her open palm. “Hey, I gotta get back. Jo’s keeping my seat by the stage warm, and there’s a really hot girl dancing next. She came by the table earlier, flirted like _crazy_ with Dean.”

“Oh?” Castiel replies, doing his best to sound casual, keeping his eyes focused on the neon alcohol in front of him and the way it shimmers as he plunges the accompanying straw further into the glass. _I don’t care,_ he tells himself.

“Mmhmm,” Charlie says with a nod before continuing. “Right after you two came in. Not that Dean had any clue, or even noticed her at all. He was busy watching some oblivious, tall, dark, and dreamy dude apologizing to Jess halfway across the room.” Startled, Castiel’s head snaps up to find Charlie beaming at him. She sighs, all pretend-exasperation, before ruffling his hair and hopping down off of her bar stool. “Yes, you, doofus. God, if you two weren’t so deliciously perfect together, I swear I’d wash my hands of you both. The angst!” 

“Hey,” Castiel calls after her as she starts to walk away. “You forgot your drink.”

Charlie throws him a wink and a cocky finger gun. “I don’t drink, remember? But I know someone who does, and I think you owe him an apology.” With that, Charlie saunters away, back to the group from their party that’s hanging by the front of the stage, chatting and spilling drinks, preparing to throw some bills. Castiel clocks Christian and Brady over with them, and is secretly glad they’re nowhere near Dean. 

After shooting a glance in Dean’s direction to find him very obviously sitting with his arms folded, legs crossed, blatantly _not_ looking Castiel’s way, Castiel sighs and picks up the two glasses. With absolutely no intention of apologizing (for this or anything else he’s going to rain down on Dean’s head tonight), Castiel makes his way over and slides into the booth next to Dean, where he’s relocated from his former chair. Castiel supposes it’s probably easier to hide his discomfort sunk back into the bench seat the way that he is. 

Across the table, Jess and Sam are making out enthusiastically, groping at each other in a more graphic manner than Castiel’s ever seen from either normally-reserved person in public. _Good for them,_ he thinks, a small smile ticking up the corner of his lips. Without a word, Castiel slides Dean’s drink in front of him and then slips a hand beneath the table to squeeze Dean’s thigh. Still pouting, Dean leans forward and drinks half of the concoction in one go, unable to resist letting slip a pleased little noise from his throat. It’s terribly, painfully endearing. 

“Hey Casss,” Sam slurs, finally surfacing from Jess’ embrace and taking notice of the new arrival at the table. “Havin’ fun?” 

“Yes. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this drunk,” Castiel points out good-naturedly, as an equally intoxicated Jessica drops her head to Sam’s shoulder. First smiling happily at Castiel, she then switches to sloppily draining some water from a random glass on the table before ultimately returning to mouthing at Sam’s neck. Dean wrinkles his nose in disgust. 

“I need to piss,” he announces loudly, shoving at Castiel’s shoulder in an effort to get him to move out of the seat. It’s the way he goes about it that has Castiel swearing he’ll make Dean pay for later. He growls quietly in warning, but Dean responds only by nearly falling over him in his haste to escape the booth. Cas’ hand drifts over his ass as he goes, mostly accidental, the low key vibrations only noticeable because he’s checking for them. 

As Castiel sits back down, his eyes never leave Dean’s retreating form—watching, waiting for a sign, and— _there._ Right before he disappears inside the unisex restroom, Dean looks back over his shoulder, making pointed eye contact that can’t be mistaken for anything other than what it is. _An invitation._ The implications of that look, that _offer,_ steal Castiel’s entire brain capacity, and only after Sam’s said his name several times does Castiel even realizes he was talking. With reluctance, he tears his eyes away from the still-closing bathroom door, redirecting his attention to the pair of tipsy lovebirds openly laughing at him.

“Wow,” Jess remarks, lolling against Sam’s side as she waves her finger vaguely in Castiel’s direction. “You… you’re...” She trails off and squints, tipping her head up and slapping Sam’s cheek gently. “What is he, again?” 

“I’unno,” Sam slurs back. “A dumbass, just like my brother.” He laughs, loudly, and then smacks the table hard, rattling the glasses. “Cas, don’ hate me for telling you the truth, alright?” 

“Never, Sam,” Castiel replies automatically, sipping at Dean’s abandoned drink, since he’s already emptied his own. His brain is starting to get extremely fuzzy, so it’s probably time to slow down, but a few more sips of what seems to be mostly sugar won’t hurt.

“Dean…” Sam slurs. “He is _so_ gone on you. And you,” Sam says more firmly, sitting up in a way that causes Jess to fall over and planting his elbow on the table so he can point an accusatory finger. “You’re not any better.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Castiel replies noncommittally, still stirring at his drink. 

“Well, aren’t you going to go after him?” Jess pipes up, smiling knowingly, and Castiel glances over at her, surprised. 

“Oh, just go,” Sam chimes in, waving Castiel off and turning back into his bride-to-be to continue making out. Pretty soon after, Castiel might as well be sewn into the vinyl of the booth, for all the attention he’s being paid. He squints at the still-closed bathroom door, chews his lip for a moment, and then makes a break for it. 

Castiel barely has a foot through the narrow opening when his shirt is grabbed and he’s yanked the rest of the way inside, Dean’s hand in his hair and a tongue down his throat. Castiel makes a surprised noise but reacts immediately, ripping Dean away and slapping him across the face before shoving him up against the wall from behind. With a hand twisted in the hair at the crown of Dean’s head and the other pinning the hand Dean was using to grope Castiel’s crotch to the door, Castiel uses his body to keep a struggling Dean still.

“You really think you call the shots, don’t you?” Dean doesn’t respond, just wiggles around beneath him, and his ass moving against Castiel’s groin isn’t doing anything to slow things down. “I know what you’re doing,” Castiel continues, dropping Dean’s wrist in favor of yanking his jeans down, keeping his shoulders pressed against Dean’s so that he can’t move. 

“Teasing me, trying to make me jealous, now baiting me into fucking you. Fine,” he snaps, yanking Dean away from the door by his hair, pants low enough to make it awkward as he stumbles and Castiel recalibrates them both in front of the sink and the mirror above it. Dean’s beautifully messy, pupils dilated from the alcohol and arousal, hair destroyed, cheeks pink and lips parted—Castiel couldn’t say no to him if he tried. “I’ll give you what you want, _and_ I’ll make you regret it.”

The skin peeking out from beneath green lace is still slightly pink, and Castiel kneads both of Dean’s cheeks greedily before tugging the fabric to the side. After that, he doesn’t mess around. Castiel unzips his pants, pulls his cock out over his boxer briefs and then removes Dean’s plug, keeping it in his hand. “Don’t you dare touch yourself,” he murmurs. “Or you won’t be coming at all tonight.” 

In his drunken state, Castiel’s a little unsteady and it takes him two tries to line himself up and push inside, though Dean doesn’t seem to notice, rocking on his heels and whimpering with need. Dean’s rim is wonderfully slick and relaxed when Castiel nudges at it, allowing him to sink inside easily until his hips are flush with Dean’s gorgeous ass. 

With his free hand, he wraps fingers around Dean’s neck from behind, forcing Dean to keep his head up and look himself in the eyes in the mirror as Castiel fucks him, slow and deep. “Don’t bait me, Dean,” he warns, tightening his fingers just enough to make Dean’s eyes go wide and his lips part, before relaxing them again. “Tell me, who do you belong to?” 

Dean works to catch his breath, moaning as Castiel punches out a particularly emphatic thrust against his prostate, but Castiel just leans in, plasters their bodies together from shoulder to ass and nips at Dean’s ear. “Who do you belong to, Dean? Whose ass is this?” He removes his hand from Dean’s throat for _just_ long enough to give said ass a little spank. Not fighting the visceral urge to expose Dean further, Castiel grabs the bottom hem of Dean's shirt and pulls it upward, shoving it through the opening around his tanned, collarless ( _but not ownerless_ ) neck. He likes the way it looks, Dean's back on show, the fabric bunched at his nape.

“Tell me, Dean!”

“You!” Dean gasps out, “Yours! Oh, God, _yes, Cas!_ I’m yours, Cas!” 

“You’re damn right,” Castiel replies, picking up the pace with his hips and chasing his own orgasm, tempting and powerful on the horizon. He’d love to yank Dean’s thigh up, really bend him over and push his head down onto the counter, but they’re limited by the constraints of Dean’s pants, so what he’s got will have to do. 

He settles for twisting a hand into the fabric of Dean’s rucked-up shirt, admiring the way he looks mostly naked despite all of his clothes still technically being on. As his peak approaches, fueled by Dean’s gorgeous little noises and moans beneath him, Castiel fucks him hard straight through it; no warning, no mercy. He’s so overcome by pleasure and the sight of Dean totally wrecked in the mirror, that Castiel barely reacts when the door to the bathroom clicks open and _Suzy_ is standing there, her lipstick-painted mouth frozen in a perfect “O.” 

It’s ludicrous and delicious, and Castiel loves every second of watching her react and flee. He’s never laughed his way through an orgasm until now, but there’s a first time for everything. At the very least, Castiel still has the presence of mind to grab the base of Dean’s cock and stop him from coming, since by the sound of it, he was working up to a pretty amazing finish. 

As soon as he’s milked himself dry in Dean’s ass _and_ he’s sure that releasing Dean’s dick won’t result in anything besides raging disappointment, Castiel pulls out and replaces his cock with the plug. Meanwhile, Dean catches on, all too quick to start crying and begging, pleading his case. “No, no, no, Cas, please, _please_ let me come,” he sobs into his folded arms where he’s still bent over next to the sink. 

Since Dean’s in no state to do so (and they’ll be in here all night if they wait until he is), Castiel rights Dean’s underwear and jeans, buttoning them up and turning Dean around to cradle him in his arms. Dean’s still-hard cock strains against the unforgiving material of his pants and Dean looks positively _destroyed,_ just how Castiel likes him. “Cas,” he whines, as Castiel kisses the side of his neck, his jaw, and finally, his lips. “This is so cruel.” 

“Oh, baby,” Castiel soothes with a devious grin and a palm caressing softly down the side of Dean’s face. “You haven’t seen anything yet.” 

As he’s leading a reluctant (but no longer mopey, surprisingly) Dean back out onto the club floor, Dean abruptly remembers the details of what happened in the bathroom and stops Castiel, horrified. “Please tell me I imagined Suzy walking in on us,” he says, eyes wide, and when Castiel just grins in return, slaps a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ. What a way to out yourself to an ex.” 

“I thought it was spectacular,” Castiel tells him, resuming their walk back to the table. “Now we _all_ know who you belong to.” 

As he not-so-subtly adjusts his pants, Dean snorts. “Yeah listen, I’m into this, but if it’s all the same to you, let’s not repeat that display with Christian. Dude already hates me enough for one lifetime.” 

Castiel snorts derisively but doesn’t promise anything. Truthfully, he’d appreciate the loosest excuse to rearrange Dean’s cousin’s features, although part of him suspects the man really only hates himself. Dean is simply a convenient target who reminds him of all the things he wants but is too damn cowardly to reach out and take. 

“We’ll see,” is what he settles on saying out loud, releasing Dean’s hand so that he can pull over a chair and motion for Dean to sit in it. He does, albeit with a wary eyebrow raised, like he’s just catching on that Castiel still has some major tricks up his sleeve regarding the rest of their night. 

“Welcome back,” Charlie says smugly from her place on the bench seat Dean had been occupying earlier. To Charlie’s right, Jo is tipping the last of her beer out of the glass and into her mouth, and Alfie is essentially smushed into the wall on her other side. He doesn’t look as if he minds, though, glitter and a bright smudge of lipstick visible on one cheek, the hazy glow of alcohol glazing his eyes.

“Another round!” Jo yells, haphazardly flagging down a waitress by waving her empty glass around in the air. Across the table, Sam and Jess are still busy with each other, and Castiel doubts they even realize he left and was replaced. 

“Alright,” Castiel begins, clearing his throat as he looks around and beckons for the first unoccupied stripper he sees to come over to their group. He’s already aware that the no-touching rule at this club can seemingly be bent at the dancer’s discretion, courtesy of Dean’s ex’s display (and possibly Alfie’s cheek?), and a quick conversation with the lovely girl he’s engaged confirms that’s the case. Stepping to the side so that Dean can’t overhear, Castiel has a brief but pointed discussion with her about what he wants and what he expects before handing over a _very_ large wad of cash.

With a wink, the girl agrees and disappears, promising to be back shortly, and Castiel thanks her with a smile. 

Turning back to the group, they’ve all barely even noticed his distraction, probably assuming he’s just doing what normal men do at a strip club and enjoying the talent. In a way, that’s true. Bending down, Castiel puts his lips close to Dean’s ear so that only he can hear. “Remember, you are not to come tonight until you have my permission. Will that be a problem?”

Dean makes a dismissive noise. “I’ve got it under control, Cas, thanks,” he replies, patting his crotch. “System standby, I think I’ll make it.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” Castiel murmurs before he pulls back, catching the eye of the dancer as she approaches again, a friend by her side. Hiding his smile, Castiel pulls up a chair almost perpendicular to Dean, so that his left knee is nearly touching Dean’s right, but not quite. They’re in perfect line of sight to each other, which is exactly what Castiel wants. “You wanted a lap dance?” Castiel asks casually, conversationally. “You’ve got it.” 

Before Dean can protest, Castiel’s recruited dancer is straddling his lap, grinding down on him. She’s good, Castiel can tell from where he’s sitting—just the right kind of pressure, just enough tease. While she gyrates in Dean’s lap, her friend waits patiently nearby, and after fifteen or so minutes, the girl gets up and Dean looks abjectly relieved, flushed and adjusting himself where he sits, clearly thinking that he’s survived.

Unfortunately for Dean, this torture session is far from over. The girl that’s waiting in the wings takes the previous girl’s place in Dean’s lap, and this one is topless. Now, Castiel may be jealous, but he’s not an idiot—he knows Dean is attracted to him, has zero insecurities about what he offers and what Dean needs in the bedroom. On the other hand, he’s known Dean for many years, and the man _enjoys_ looking at women, especially naked women. It’s just a fact, and in this situation, Castiel’s wielding that attraction like a weapon. It’s a beautiful thing to witness. 

Next to Dean, Castiel laughs, he can’t help it, Dean’s face just looks _so_ pained. As Castiel watches the lapdance progress, something hits him softly in the side of his head before falling into his lap. It’s a balled up napkin, and it’s wielder is Charlie, who’s looking over at him incredulously.

“Baller,” she says, nodding in Dean’s direction with what seems like awe. “Mad respect. Didn’t know you had it in you.” 

“You’d be surprised what I have in me,” Castiel replies evenly, with what he knows is a devilish smirk. A waitress drops off their refill pitcher and Castiel accepts the cold glass of beer Jo offers with thanks. He sips it, the crisp cold of the liquid immensely satisfying down his throat after the last hour’s activities. 

Impatient, Charlie raises her eyebrows. “Well?” she prompts. “Did you like my present?” Confused, Castiel cocks his head to the side and shakes it slightly as if to say, _I don’t know what you’re talking about._ In response, Charlie’s eyes fix on something just behind Castiel and she tips her chin at it. When he turns around to see what’s so interesting, he finds Suzy walking past them. While Castiel watches, he sees the girl shoot Dean a brief glance, her cheeks pinkening up as she drops her gaze to the floor and hurries by. But she— _oh._

Turning back to Charlie, Castiel doesn’t know whether to try and look appreciative, or skeptical, or _what._ Ultimately, he goes with the night’s theme and just laughs, truly shocked, which is not an emotion that Castiel feels frequently. “ _You_ did that?” he remarks, leaning forward to clink his beer against Charlie’s when she holds it out.

“Did what?” Jo chimes in, confused, but neither Charlie nor Castiel answer, both just waving her off with mutual conspiratory giggles. Luckily, another couple of dancers wander by at that moment and stop to chat, sufficient distraction for the table. That includes Sam and Jess, who have finally surfaced for air. All of them slip into easy conversation, talking and laughing and continuing to drink and dance and party until Jess finally falls asleep with her head on the table. 

Over that time, a number of Sam and Jess’ co-workers stop in, plenty of which are people Castiel knows too thanks to the ER overlap, which is very pleasant. Even Christian and Brady seem to be on their best behavior tonight—or perhaps they’re simply occupied with harassing the dancers instead of Sam’s other friends and family. 

The only one of their group who’s not having an easy, laid back sort of evening is _Dean,_ since Castiel ensures there’s an attractive stripper in his lap for the entirety of the rest of the outing. By the time his allotted money runs out and the last girl bails, Dean’s visibly struggling. He’s not just half-drunk, he’s clearly so aroused it must hurt. His hair is a mess and damp at the edges from sweat, his face is red, and he’s damn near panting, crossing one leg over the other just as soon as there’s no one sitting on them.

It surely has not helped that Castiel’s been sitting close enough to touch and lean in to whisper to him on occasion (frequently), or that he’s been working the settings on the remote in his pocket like it’s personally offended him. It’s been fun, but Dean’s starting to look more miserable by the minute, and Castiel doesn’t want to push him _too_ far. The minute he leans in across the space between their chairs, lips brushing the shell of Castiel’s ear to whisper, “Please, Sir,” Castiel jumps into action. 

At that point, it’s all too easy for Castiel to excuse himself and Dean from the group, since Charlie knows more or less (more) what he’s been up to and already agreed to take them home (and Castiel owes her big, he really does). No one else seems to take particular notice of Dean’s state—in all likelihood, they probably believe he’s just drunk and horny, which is a pretty average state for Dean to be in. The two of them walk out with arms around each other (necessary, due to Dean’s wobbly legs) and to a chorus of “thank yous” and “goodnights” from their friends. 

“Cas,” Dean mumbles into his ear, sounding truly pitiful. “Cas, please don’t make me wait. I’ll do whatever you want, all night, I swear. Dude, it _hurts.”_ He does his best to tug Castiel towards the bathroom they’d visited earlier, but Castiel’s much more sober now (though not entirely), and has no problem resisting.

Steering them back to following Charlie towards the exterior doors to the club, Castiel just smiles and tightens his grasp around Dean’s waist. “You’re being very good for me, Dean,” he reassures him softly. “All this restraint, without so much as a cock ring to help you out. It’s very impressive. I’ll make you a deal, since you’ve endured so beautifully tonight, and it’s been a true pleasure to watch.”

Dean’s long-suffering expression turns up at Castiel mournfully from where he’d previously planted his face into Castiel’s shoulder. Their walking suffers a bit for it, but Castiel doesn’t mind. In his tipsy state, he can’t even be bothered to worry about the way they’re blurring lines like crazy right now. His _friend_ Dean Winchester would never drunkenly wrap himself around Castiel in public, would never be so blatantly needy and affectionate. This _is_ dangerous—this is not _friend_ behavior and it barely qualifies as part of their scene. It’s certainly not _necessary_. And yet, Castiel hasn’t the slightest inclination to put a stop to it. 

As soon as they’re out of the club and into the frigid night air, Castiel lets his reckless side hijack the reins completely, at least for a minute. 

“Whoa, holy shit,” Charlie squeaks as Dean gets slammed against the side of the building, Castiel pushing both of Dean’s arms up next to his head and kissing him slow, _deep_. “Hey!” She protests, edging close enough to nudge Castiel’s hip with the toe of her boot. “ _Hey!_ Yo, let’s get something straight. I love the two of you like the brothers I never wanted and I _totally_ ship you as my OTP, but this,” she circles a hand in their general direction as Castiel breaks away from Dean’s mouth, biting his own lip to see Dean’s desperate, dazed eyes staring back, filled with want. His lips are shiny from Castiel’s spit and he _would,_ he would absolutely take him _right here_ and now if it weren’t for Charlie. 

_"This_ is not something I ever want to see,” she continues as they resume their walk towards Dean’s car. “Got it? And don’t even _think_ of desecrating the back seat while I’m driving. I’m serious, Castiel, I will put itching powder in your boots the next time we’re on duty together, I swear to _Gaia.”_

Clearly skeptical of Castiel’s word, Charlie makes him swear to God, Scout’s honor, and Hermione Granger before she’ll let them in the car, never mind into the rear seat together. To be fair, Castiel never had any intention of finishing this night off in the back seat of Dean’s car—that would be terribly anti-climactic—so it’s an easy promise to both make and keep. It doesn’t stop him from running fingernails down the inside of Dean’s thighs as they drive, though, or from pressing open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck.

“Hey,” Dean says suddenly, just as they’re pulling into the garage to his building and Castiel is finishing up ordering an Uber for Charlie on his phone. “You said you’d make me a deal. What was that about?” 

Not wanting to upset Charlie with further sex talk, Castiel glances up and ensures she’s fully occupied in navigating the narrow path between parked cars to his apartment’s assigned space. “Why don’t you guess?” he murmurs quietly. “What could I possibly be leaving up to you, at this point?” 

Before Dean can answer, Charlie’s pulled in, shifted the car into park, and they’re all exiting, repeating the “thank you and goodnight” furious exchange of words and hugs they’d shared with their other friends back at the club. 

“I owe you,” Castiel tells Charlie, right before they part.

She waves cheerfully, pulling her earbuds out of her bag and inserting them before shrugging. “I’ll find a way for you to make it up to me,” she says with a wink, and then she’s gone, and Castiel and Dean are _finally, finally alone._

They don’t even make it all the way to the elevator before they’re pulling at clothing. By the time they’re tripping over each other’s feet down the hallway leading to Castiel’s door, both of their pants are undone and Dean’s shirt is off, hanging from his forearm. Thankfully, it’s the middle of the night and no one else is out and about, so they make it into the apartment without scarring any children or giving little old ladies heart attacks or having the police called. 

They lose the remainder of their clothing on the way to the playroom, save for Dean’s panties—which, if Castiel had his way, Dean would always have on—and somehow Dean ends up on his back on the hardwood floor. Unwilling to wait, Castiel finds himself straddling Dean and rutting their groins together. 

While he knows that Dean is in pain and on the edge, Castiel can’t help but relish the way he hangs on for dear life. Dean’s fingers slip from sweat as they scrape against the smooth floor, searching for something to hold onto. His jaw is clenching and his head tosses restlessly from side to side, collar still beautifully bright against the pale skin of his wrist. Even the scars on his shoulder (that Dean picked at incessantly while healing, ensuring they’d stick around) in the shape of Castiel’s handprint seem to stand out stunningly clear tonight.

“What do you _want,_ Dean?” Castiel demands. “Tell me, I want to give it to you.” 

“That… that the deal?” Dean manages, gasping as his head tips back when Castiel slides purposefully against him. 

“Delicious,” Castiel murmurs, hips still gyrating in a way that’s playful for him and torturous for Dean. “Yes, that’s the deal. You may come however you like. Tell me, Dean.” 

“ _Ung_ ,” Dean groans. “I—fuck me? And... the fleshlight?” 

“Done,” Castiel agrees easily, sitting back on his heels before standing up, reaching down to grasp Dean around his forearm and pull him vertical, up against Castiel’s own chest. They stare at each other for a moment, Dean breathing hard and their forearms pressed together between their bodies. _Dean_ makes the first move this time, Castiel’s sure of it, and normally he’d scold him but—well, he _did_ say Dean could have whatever he wanted, and so sue him if Castiel fucking _loves_ feeling like Dean wants him. 

Right now, Dean’s kissing like he’s a man on the verge, and Castiel wastes no time in steering him towards the bed. He only breaks away for a brief moment to retrieve the fleshlight from the armoire that contains most of his casual toys, making it back to Dean’s side in record time. They’re both a little unsteady and sloppy, and Castiel’s not sure he could handle anything overly complicated right now anyway, so he shoves Dean down onto his back and pours lube into the toy without pretense. 

Normally, he’d warm the insert up with water, but there’s no way Dean is going to sit around and wait for that, nor does Castiel care to make him. 

Removing the plug in Dean’s ass reminds Castiel that it’s still holding his cum inside, some of it leaking out, dripping down Dean’s crack and leaving Castiel grabbing his own dick at the sight. “ _Dean,_ ” he murmurs, wiping off the leftover lube onto his own cock and pushing Dean’s thighs back and apart even further. 

For his part, Dean barely seems to notice, fumbling at the sheets and mumbling to himself in what Castiel’s fairly certain is an incoherent mix of pep-talk and desperate begging meant for him. He’s so gorgeous and pliant like this, exactly how Castiel always wants him, broken down and desperate, _perfection._

Castiel pushes inside without pretense and Dean cries loudly with relief, his back arching and his cock blurting a steady stream of precum that dribbles down over his belly, cock itself purple and angry at the head. Castiel’s not an idiot—this is not going to be a drawn-out event. As tears leak from Dean’s eyes and his lip gets pulled in between his teeth, Castiel slides the fleshlight down over his cock and works it, Dean’s response nothing short of stunning, so much so that Castiel nearly forgets to fuck him.

In fact, he opts to mostly watch—the way Dean’s hips swivel and meet his gentle thrusts, the way Dean’s muscular chest expands with corresponding choppy breaths and moans, the smooth length of his throat and the droplets of sweat pooling in its hollow. Castiel does his best to catalog it all, to file it away and save it forever in his mind. All in all, it’s only a short few minutes of Castiel moving the fleshlight and providing soft encouragement to Dean’s ears before Dean’s coming, his body shaking and trembling and clenching around Castiel’s cock as he cries out with both relief and satisfaction. 

Once he’s done, Castiel tosses the toy aside and gathers Dean up, pressing his thighs to his chest and fucking him hard, arms wrapped tightly around Dean’s back and shoulders. It’s incredibly intimate, and a still-vaguely-intoxicated Castiel feels like he’s inside of a dream. Dean’s wonderfully boneless beneath him; kissing back passively when Castiel licks into his mouth, just allowing himself to be manipulated this way and that. 

When Castiel comes, it’s with Dean’s name on his lips and their bodies as close as two people can possibly be. The orgasm is _almost_ as good as the way Dean’s arms tighten around him, the way he sighs into his ear and nuzzles just beneath it. It’s stupidly soft, and Castiel can’t even bring himself to worry about the way they’re _barely_ toeing the party line anymore. In fact, it’s all he can do not to shove his fingers into Dean’s hair, pull him close and tell him all the ways he loves him, is _in love_ with him. 

Instead, Castiel forces himself to pull away, to clean them both up, to bring water and aspirin and juice for Dean to their bedside table before passing out. Even as that’s happening, Castiel finds himself blinking against his heavy eyelids, staring in awe at Dean’s peaceful face, his closed eyelids, the way he drapes himself so easily over Castiel’s chest. 

What is he even _doing_ with this man? Any other time, Castiel would probably go down the rabbit hole agonizing about it, but tonight, he just can’t do it. Thinking back on everything they’ve done, Castiel has no regrets, can’t bring himself to even pretend. He’s still tipsy, he’s satisfied, the mattress is inviting and Dean’s embrace is warm and comfortable. Perhaps he should be more concerned with how often he tables these particular fears regarding Dean. Perhaps he will try to be better about it in the future, whatever that might mean.

But not tonight. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Cas takes Dean’s exhibitionist tendencies for a trial run, training day at the fireground gets all too real, and being fashionably late is becoming their “thing.” Plus, feelings, flirting and fighting, but not at the same time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I am hoping for a sign  
>  something bring me right here  
> Not in a drink, not in a drift  
> Please see me through metaphors in blue  
> I'm holding on for dear life_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you so, so much for all of your comments and kudos. I WILL be answering them, I just had a rough week, AND--  
> This chapter got away from me hard, and I had to split it. I did, however, write it all and I'm posting its almost 20k total this week-the main Dean POV now and a shorter Cas POV tomorrow. 
> 
> A second HUGE thank you to @MalMuses who helped me workshop a lot of this and gave me some much needed feedback and nudging for certain parts and to @coinofstone who always comes through in the editing clutch no matter how much I throw at her. 😂
> 
> Chapter warnings and tags: THESE CONTAIN SPOILERS YOU AREN'T SUPPOSED TO KNOW AS YOU READ, FYI. I don't think there's anything particularly triggering/no crazy kinks in this chapter so feel free to skip if you want to read the chapter as intended:  
> semi-public sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism kink, bottom dean, temperature play, insufficient aftercare, Dom drop, fire/firefighter training, mentions of being trapped in a burning building, non-graphic injuries, anxiety, emotional hurt/comfort.

“ _Sir, yes!”_ Dean can’t help crying out as Castiel thrusts into him from behind, pushing his bare belly up against the railing of the balcony where the edge digs mercilessly into his soft flesh. Between that and the cutting cold of the air whipping around them up on the twentieth floor, Dean’s already lasted a lot longer than he might have bet on. Thankfully, the sliding glass doors to Castiel’s apartment are thrown wide open behind them, the warm air wafting out and offering _some_ semblance of relief and buffer against the early morning freeze. 

“If you can’t— _ugh—_ keep that pretty mouth shut, I will shut it for you _and_ I will take away your hand,” Castiel admonishes, his pace slowing to something deep and frustrating as he wraps himself around Dean’s back. That’s enough of a warning for Dean to bite his lip, to tuck his chin down against his chest and concentrate on finishing. With his eyes closed, it’s much easier to forget the cold _and_ the fact that he’s completely naked and being fucked in plain sight of anyone who cares to look.

Castiel’s apartment balcony looks out over the city and is fairly high up, which means that from the street below, one would really have to be looking to catch sight of the two of them. Still, it also faces several other apartment buildings and corporate offices across the way, and even in the pre-dawn, five a.m. stillness, there are plenty of lights on over there to make the risk substantially real.

The thought of being watched, whether purposeful or accidental, is something Dean hasn’t been able to stop thinking about since his brother’s bachelor party and _Suzy._ It’s led to several interesting discussions and offers from Castiel, including a possible trip to some kink club Castiel knows about downtown, and this—this brutal fuck on Cas’ balcony—seemed like a pretty harmless way of testing the waters.

So far, Dean loves it. Maybe not the cold—that’s less than thrilling, and not doing much for his ability to keep it up, either. Also, the fact that Cas is in sweatpants and an unzipped hoodie behind him is just so _Cas_ Dean wouldn’t even know where to start—but being exposed and violated in public is fucking _hot_. In his mind, Dean imagines the people across the way looking out their windows, watching him getting railed by Cas, or Cas’ next door neighbors hearing his badly-bitten-off moans and just _knowing_ what’s happening to him—between that and Cas’ torso pressed warm and inviting up against his back, Dean’s hand (and Cas’ dick nailing his prostate) gets him to his peak fairly quickly. 

“Stunning,” Castiel praises when Dean manages to finish, despite his shivering. His thrusting slows for a second and at first, Dean thinks he’s going to get to go inside. But then Cas reaches underneath his armpits to cup his shoulders for leverage and sets about fucking him harder, rougher than he was before. Despite the prickling chill and the icy metal of the railing against his skin, Dean can’t help his eyes rolling back in his head or the noises that get punched out of his throat at the overstimulation. It’s _just_ the right side of too much, and a tear or two escapes from his eye, trickling wetly down his cheek as Castiel groans and finishes achingly hot—even more so for the cold—inside of him. 

Before Dean can even straighten up fully, Cas’ sweatshirt is already around his shoulders and he’s being helped back inside, a strong arm wrapped steadyingly around his waist. The sliding doors get closed and then Cas is leading him to the kitchen; orange juice and a warm cloth, same as always, whether they’re going back to bed or not. 

They’re not, unfortunately, not today, and as Dean watches Castiel rinse the used rag off in the sink, he regrets it more than he ever has. The lighting is low inside Cas’ space, just a single lamp in the living area casting a dim glow out into the apartment as a whole. It’s quiet as they move around each other so naturally, in routines that have become second nature. This feels domestic, what they’re doing, and every time Dean has to leave or break one of these moments in particular, he worries that it won’t happen again. 

Sure, that’s a little sad, a bit desperate, but that’s what Dean’s life has come to. Clinging to every moment he can steal with Cas, holding on for dear life to each glimpse of what _might_ lie beyond this Dom and Sub relationship they have—if they could ever get there. Dean sighs and leans back against the counter top—still naked save for Cas’ hoodie—and scrubs a hand over his tired eyes. 

“What?” Castiel asks softly, wringing out the rag and dropping it into the basin to sit until he throws a load of laundry in later. The sheets from the playroom and yesterday’s uniform, probably. He’s predictable that way— _Dean_ can predict his movements, because he’s in Cas’ space so often now, he just knows. Dean hates how much he loves that he just knows. 

“Nothing,” he replies off-handedly, forcing a yawn, the facade of which Castiel’s all-seeing eyes undoubtedly pierce directly through, though he doesn’t call Dean out. “Just tired and thinking about how friggin’ long this day is going to be.” 

With a low hum of acknowledgment, Castiel nudges Dean’s arm away from his side so that he can step in and press up against him, wrapping arms around his waist and dragging a gentle hand down over his cheek. The result is Dean’s face turning into his, their lips meeting softly, affectionately. Castiel kisses him long and slow, not too deep but plenty intentional, and Dean can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it as much as falling asleep in Cas’ arms. It’s a good close second, anyway. 

Cas takes a long time to pull away, probably longer than Dean has to spare, considering the hour. He _should_ be the one to cut it off, Dean knows he should, but it’s hard to say no when Cas is like this. The fact is, Cas is being careful—Dean is fully aware that’s all that’s happening here—since Dean has to leave shortly, but Dean’s brain insists on telling him that Cas is seeking comfort and affection, too. Really, this could be both. These days, Dean is increasingly unsure of what’s right or real anymore—is finding it harder and harder to distinguish between what the truth is regarding _Cas’_ feelings for him, and what are just fantasies his hormone-addled body dreams up to torture him with. 

“I gotta go, sw—Sir,” Dean tells Cas, only _just_ managing to stop himself from calling Castiel “sweetheart,” and spitting out the appropriate moniker. “Duty calls,” he adds apologetically, extricating himself from Castiel’s grasp before unbuckling his collar and making his way to the hallway leading to the front door. He’d left his folded uniform out there the night before, prepared for this very moment, knowing he’d want to spend every second up until this point with Cas, _belonging_ to Cas. He should probably shower, but fuck it, he’s going to be spending the entire day packed up and training in the County’s burn building—he’s going to smell like absolute ass by the end of that, anyway. 

While Dean dresses in the relative darkness of the hallway, Castiel just leans on the edge of the doorway to the kitchen and watches. He looks stupidly inviting with his crazy bedhead and his soft grey sweatpants, bare chest radiating warmth the way Dean knows it does, strong arms just begging for him to crawl back into them. He _could_ call off sick…

 _No._ Dean dismisses that idea immediately, or at least before it can grow roots and take hold, because _damn,_ does he want to. But he can’t bail on his crew today; trainings are important—they’re the difference between a newbie panicking and bailing during a live burn, or taking a deep breath and moving forward to save someone’s life. They’re the line between an interior attack crew going in prepared and competent, and someone’s home buring to the ground. As a Lieutenant, it’s Dean’s job to hand the collective knowledge he has in his head (a lot of it learned the hard way) down to the next generation, the firefighters who might very likely someday be the difference between _his_ own life and death. 

No calling off, tempting as it may be. Anyway, he’ll see Castiel tonight. _All_ night, and it’s gonna be a big one.

“Take my sweatshirt with you. Wear it under your coat,” Castiel tells him, and Dean can recognize from his tone that it’s not a request. 

He complies, but also shoots Castiel a rueful look. “I’m fine,” Dean assures his friend, though he has to admit after zipping up the maroon hoodie—feeling and smelling Castiel all around him is _not_ a bad thing. Not at all. Truth be told, Dean’s glad he has an excuse to accept it so readily. “I promise, I’ll text you if I’m feeling off. Swear,” he says, holding up three fingers like a Boy Scout. 

His eyes narrowed, Castiel stands in the middle of the hallway and chews his thumbnail, concerned and skeptical, as usual. After what happened early on in their relationship, Cas _hates_ for either of them to have to leave after a scene without extended aftercare. While it doesn’t happen often (and the few times it has, they’ve kept in close contact and everything has been fine), Castiel still worries and he makes no secret of it. “Promise me,” he says, eventually. 

Dean laughs, but it does feel good that Castiel cares so much. On his way out of the apartment, Dean winks as he tosses his keys up and catches them in his hand. “Cross my heart, sunshine,” he quips, skating out the door and letting it slam shut behind him before Castiel can say anything about “ _inappropriate nicknames, Dean”_. 

During the ride down in the elevator, Dean finds himself whistling, and really (despite the lingering twinge in his ass), he’s feeling great. Before he even reaches his Baby, Dean’s phone is buzzing in his pocket, and he smiles when he sees Cas’ message lighting up the screen. 

Before starting up the car, Dean fires one back, assuring Castiel that he’s doing _just_ fine and promising to contact him immediately if anything changes. His fingers stumble over the sign-off, wanting to say something more, some message of affection or similar to show Cas how much he appreciates him, but at the last second Dean reels himself in. He winds up sending a cocky, “ _Laters, Baby,”_ to which Castiel will either be totally appalled or not understand at all. Considering the pop culture database Cas has to draw on, Dean is betting on the latter, though who knows. Cas is also pretty protective of the BDSM community’s integrity, so _50 Shades_ feels like something he should know and hate. 

By the time he arrives at Station Fifteen, Dean’s already put his and Cas’ exchange out of his mind, focusing fully on the work he has ahead of him. Their station is going out of service for most of Dean’s twelve-hour shift today, the entire crew heading out for a scheduled training at the county fireground. While they’re off status with the dispatch center, Station Eleven will cover any calls that come in. 

Putting Baby into park, Dean steps out and stretches, waving good morning to Victor who salutes casually back as he rounds the side of the building and enters through the open bay doors. Max and Alicia are only a few steps behind him, bickering about something Dean can’t discern from the distance and doesn’t try. _Sibling bullshit,_ he deduces, as Max catches Dean’s gaze and rolls his eyes before he and his sister disappear inside. Dean’s all too familiar with _that_. Probably for the best Sam didn’t wind up a firefighter—one of them would undoubtedly end up secured to a backboard and tied to the top of the ladder truck.

It’s cold out this morning, though not as cold as last week when they had that all-nighter three alarm blaze, thankfully. Even still, Dean can see his breath in the crisp pre-dawn air, but maybe after the sun comes up it won’t be so bad. He’s going to be spending the majority of the day inside a controlled burning building, so at the very least, the low temperature will be relieving when he comes back out.

“Hey Benny.” Dean nods to greet his Captain when he strolls into the bay, surveying the scene. The rest of his crew are already shuffling around, packing up the trucks and getting ready to move out. 

“‘Sup, brotha?” Benny tips his chin in Dean’s direction as he slings a bag of gear into the front passenger seat of Engine Fifteen’s cab. “You’re awfully cheery for this early in the mornin’. What’s gotten into you?” 

Dean grins widely as he reaches the gear racks and kicks off his duty boots in favor of stepping into his fire-rated ones before pulling up his bunker pants. He collects his bunker jacket and helmet and throws them into the back of the engine’s cab, behind Benny’s seat before answering. “Who says I’m not the one getting into someone else?”

The laugh Benny bursts out with should probably be insulting, but Dean’s unbothered, lets it roll right off his back. He got laid this morning, who cares what the fuck anyone else thinks about it? “They say if you can dream it, you can achieve it, cher,” Benny declares with another guffaw and a rough slap to Dean’s shoulder. “It’s downright adorable you think any of us believe you’re a top.” 

“Shut up,” Dean grunts, shoving Benny as hard as he can and barely budging him. Fuck Benny and his stupid-huge muscles. It’s not as if Dean’s small, but Benny’s a brick shithouse. He just chuckles as he shrugs Dean off, turning away to walk towards the middle of the bay, where he can address everyone effectively.

“Alrigh’, let’s get a move on, slackers,” Benny yells, clapping his hands together. “Fire ain’t gonna start itself.” 

The ride to the training grounds is relaxing for Dean, as much as being at work can be when he’d rather be at home, buried under the covers with Cas. The city flies by outside his window, turning first into factories before becoming increasingly rural as they reach the outskirts. The slowly-rising sun in the winter sky is reflected off of towering windows and still-sleeping cars, pink and lazy in its journey to wake up. 

Around him, Dean’s fellow crew members shoot the shit and laugh, but Dean’s content to just sit quietly, running through drills in his head and thinking about everything he has to do, both today and tonight. He feels oddly comfortable, secure, even. Looking forward to seeing Cas later and spending the night with both him and his brother at Sam and Jess’ rehearsal dinner, but not desperate for it or needy. Just… _happy._ Content with the way things are. His life is damn good right now. Dean can’t even imagine returning to the way things used to be before he and Cas jumped into this whole thing they have going together. 

In his pants’ pocket, Dean’s phone vibrates, but it’s too much of a pain to reach _under_ his bunker gear and dig it out when he’ll just have to put it back. Leaving it in an outer pocket would be a great way to end up with a melted hunk of plastic and be out a few hundred dollars for a new phone. It’s probably just Cas checking in on him, anyway. The thought makes Dean smile, makes him grateful. He turns his nose into the collar of Cas’ sweatshirt that he’s still wearing, closing his eyes and inhaling Cas’ scent deeply. _Damn,_ Dean thinks. Why doesn’t he steal Cas’ shit more often?

The County’s fireground is available for any company in the county to use for live burn training, city fire services included. It just has to be reserved ahead of time, and whatever potential scenarios approved by the County Commissioners. Not that those talking heads know anything about fire safety, and Dean snorts when he thinks about them “approving” anything. As a Lieutenant, Dean’s worries are mostly operational and practical, he steers clear of anything that would require him to deal with upper, _upper_ management in that way. That’s Bobby and Rufus’ gig, maybe Benny’s if he’s unlucky that week. 

When Victor pulls the engine to a stop about a hundred feet from the main burn building, Dean glances out the window and spots Bobby, wearing his white helmet and leaning against the Chief’s vehicle impatiently. On the ground next to him are several huge stacks of pallets, bushels of hay, and some assorted other “Class A” materials they’ll use to stoke a raging fire. All of it has to be brought inside the buildings, and no way is Bobby carrying that stuff up multiple flights of stairs himself. 

As Dean listens to Benny taking them off-status with dispatch, Station Fifteen’s ladder and rescue trucks both pull up behind the engine. Crews from the platoons alternating with Dean’s and an entire truckload of academy-fresh trainees that’ll soon be loosed on the department as a whole are staffing them, and they spill out like ants fleeing a smoking hill. _Ironic._ They’re all here to participate in the drills planned for today, all here to learn from Dean.

 _Damn,_ is he glad Cas let him blow off the lion’s share of his nervous energy earlier. 

Hopping down out of the truck (and noting that the risen sun hasn’t remotely taken the chill from the air), Dean waves hello to Bobby and then turns to the burn building to assess his canvas, internally reviewing his plan of attack. 

“Coffee’s on the picnic table,” Bobby grunts at Dean, before leaning to the side to yell around him at a group of trainees who’re dawdling awkwardly in front of the ladder truck. “Hey, you idjits just planning on watching while a real house burns down, or what? Stop actin’ like spoiled princesses and haul this junk up to the second floor.” 

From over at the picnic table, one of several placed underneath a lean-to meant to shelter onlookers from rain, water, falling debris, and sun, Dean stifles a laugh. He turns away so that the newbies don’t see him smirking as he pours a coffee out from one of the many Boxes of Joe littering the aged wood. There’s a box of donuts there too, and Dean wastes no time in shoving more than a mouthful’s worth of powdered deliciousness into his face. No question, this is the best part of any training—free food. With any luck, they’ll get subs from that place Dean likes down the street for lunch. 

Once his belly is full and there’s caffeine enroute to his veins, Dean turns his attention back to the fireground. The “burn building” they’re working in today is actually two adjacent concrete structures, built specifically to train firefighters and rescue personnel using simulations that mimic real life as closely as possible. The side closest to Dean’s engine was constructed to resemble a three-story rowhome, a residential dwelling, hundreds of which are found all over the city. Alternatively, the complex to the right of the house mimics a four-story commercial or industrial structure. Both are important to master, and both require entirely different approaches. 

For Dean, the struggle is where to start and what to focus on. What’s _most_ important and what are the priorities, especially for a bunch of newbies? There are a million things they could do here today, _hours_ worth of exercises and training, and Bobby’s left it up to Dean to pare their maneuvers down to the essentials. 

He takes a deep breath and lets it out. _Alright. Let’s do this._

“Not gonna make us run sprinkler drills on the industrial side are you?” Aaron appears at Dean’s side, helping himself to a cup of coffee. “Fuckin’ cold out.”

Dean scoffs. “In this weather? What, you think I want my balls to fall off after I unpack? Don’t ask stupid questions. We’ll do those in the spring. Bus here yet?”

“Yep,” Aaron replies with a nod, gesturing off towards the part of the parking lot Dean can’t see, thanks to all the fire trucks. “Medic-1 just pulled in. Your boy on today?” 

“My—” Dean startles, accidentally cuts himself off as he nearly spills his coffee, and then glares. “What’d I say about stupid questions?” Leaving Aaron looking confused and sort of pitiful with his hands still raised, trying to pacify Dean’s attitude, he stomps off. 

_Your boy._

Dean wishes. 

_Focus._ “Probies to the second floor,” Dean hollers, swirling his hand over his head like he’s rounding them up, cowboy-style. “Time to see what you’re made of.” 

Having all graduated from the academy and received conditional employment offers from the city, none of the newbies Dean’s dealing with today are _brand_ new to either fire ops or training evolutions. But everything they know is controlled—and nothing about fire in the real world is. This is where they’ll start to learn how to apply what they’ve memorized from books and in class; how to think on their feet, how to translate the theoretical to the practical—how to react when everything goes wrong and nothing is how you expect it to be.

For starters, Dean gathers the newbies inside the second floor of the residential structure as Bobby lights the fire and then bails, set to run command from outside the building. Everyone left inside is now fully masked and packed up at this point, except Ash, who is stoking the fire completely unbothered by the increasing heat and smoke. He’s hanging out by the door to the fire escape so Dean isn’t overly worried, but he expects Ash to be forced out of the room within the next few minutes.

Elsewhere in the two buildings, Benny is putting the seasoned crews from Fifteen through their paces, sending them floor to floor on last checks for anything out of place or unsafe. Specifically, they’re looking for crumbling walls or large cracks permeating the cement structure. It’s good practice for them to just exist in SCBA gear with no actual risk, but the checks are also important for safety purposes. The buildings were walked through last night and they’re regularly maintained by the company who built them, but even concrete has its limits when it comes to fire and heat. 

_Everything_ does, and the last thing any of the officers want is to douse a training fire and have the resulting steam put pressure on an already-stressed crack, resulting in half the building coming down on their heads. 

It could happen. Nothing is _truly_ safe or risk-free when it comes to live fire; that’s just the nature of the beast. 

Dean reminds his trainees of that fact like a broken record, using the room they’re all currently huddled in to make his point. “Stay low,” he reminds them, when a firefighter or two try to lean on the sills of closed windows to make themselves more comfortable. Dean has to raise his voice to be heard through his apparatus and over the crackling of the fire, which means the resulting grumble of complaints he gets in return is almost completely stifled. 

“Fine, stand if you want. Your brains will roast inside your skull but clearly you’re not using them for anything anyway. This is firefighting 101,” Dean yells from his crouch on the other side of the blaze. “Two hundred degrees near the floor means up to _two thousand_ near the ceiling. You think that difference doesn’t matter to how long you’ll last inside a real burning building? Be my guest, try it out. All the faster I can weed your asses off my crew. Trust me, you don’t want someone who doesn’t respect the danger fire presents holding _your_ life in their hands, when you’re trapped under burning rubble. Don’t be that person, got it? 

On his shoulder, Dean’s radio speaker crackles to life and Benny’s voice can be heard. “We’re in place, brotha. Whenever you’re ready.” 

“Alright,” Dean announces, clapping his hands together as Ash hauls another pallet in through the doorway and throws it on top of the fire. The blast of oxygen from outside fuels the flames and makes them surge like a wave, licking up the wall and onto the ceiling. “Search and rescue drill—hand to foot chain, clear the second floor. There are at least two victims. Go!” 

As the trainees crawl awkwardly from the room-turned-oven, one gloved hand on the gear-covered ankle of the firefighter in front of them, the other alternately used for balance and to clear the ground around them, Dean watches with a critical eye. “Kaia,” he snaps, and the EMT-turned-potential-firefighter visibly jumps, even under all her gear. “You’re not clearing the space as you go! You could easily have missed a downed victim moving the way you are. Don’t cut corners, don’t think of this as “practice.” You want victims brought to you, go back to the ambulance and stay there. Rescues are on _your_ head now, so here’s your first lesson—” Dean pauses dramatically as Ash punctuates his sentence by tossing another broken pallet on the blaze. “It’s _always_ real.” 

The day is exhausting. They wind up doing five full evolutions (an “evolution” being the time between when a fire is stoked to life and when it’s extinguished). The trainees participate in the first four and then the experienced firefighters do a coordinated, advanced interior attack to combat a progressed fire on the industrial side of the burn building. 

When he’s not stoking the fires, Ash is filling air bottles, one after another after another, so the training can continue. Slowly but surely, the newbies learn to manage their oxygen better, learn to calm down, to breathe through the stress, to relax enough to use critical thinking instead of just their automatic fight or flight reflexes. 

Under Dean and Benny’s direction, they run hose line, hook up hydrants, throw ladders, learn to break into windows several stories up, rescue their fellow firefighters, and practice extinguishing blazes from both inside the structure and out. Every one of them improves, enough that by mid-afternoon, Dean’s no longer making a list in his head for Bobby of all the recruits that need to be fired immediately. In fact, some of them turn it around so hard, Dean actually feels honored to be leading them. He hopes Bobby feels the same way about the job he’s done organizing this thing.

Kaia is the real surprise. The pride Dean feels in his chest when he sees the timid EMT leaning halfway out of a third floor window, successfully carrying a firefighter heavier than she is over her shoulder, threatens to rip his heart in two. From down on the ground, he can see Kaia start to struggle, so Dean quickly begins clapping and whipping Cole and Max and several of the other trainees standing and watching from below into a mad frenzy. They root loudly for her as she holds her own trying to get the “unconscious person” out the window and to safety in the Rescue’s raised bucket. 

As Kaia finally succeeds in passing the boneless firefighter on her shoulder over to her two crew members waiting in the bucket with absolutely _zero_ help from inside, the noise around Dean is deafening. Everyone is screaming and jumping around, cheering Kaia on. As soon as he’s in, the “downed” firefighter stands up and pulls off his— _oops, no, that’s definitely Claire, her—_ helmet, and Kaia yanks off her SCBA mask to reveal a face-cracking smile. Dean can’t even bring himself to reprimand them when Claire leans across the space between the bucket and the window to drag Kaia into a _very_ approving kiss. 

“Fuck yea, Kaia!” Dean yells up at her, pointing his finger and nodding with approval. “That’s how we do it! Alright, you talented sons o’bitches. Trainees, tear down the residential structure setups, unpack, and then head to the hill where you can watch the rest of us rock out a commercial demonstration. Claire, stop pretending to be a probie and get down here.” 

Up in the bucket, Claire kisses Kaia one last time before smashing their hands together in an energetic, congratulatory high-five. The affectionate, adoring looks they continue to exchange as the bucket comes down and Kaia rests her elbows on the windowsill suddenly have Dean’s chest aching for a whole different reason, and _god,_ is he excited to see Castiel tonight. He only wishes he had a minute to strip his gear down and find his phone, just to check in, but as it is, his crews are waiting for instructions on the big demo they’re about to do. 

Bobby sits this one out completely, allowing Benny and Dean to run the entire advanced drill by themselves. It’s definitely an evaluation, for sure, but it’s also a show of trust, and one that Dean appreciates. This final evolution includes a monster fire and a not-small amount of real danger, but under Benny and his leadership, the whole thing goes professionally smooth, and the crews put on a demonstration Dean feels immensely proud the newbies are witnessing.

Sprawled out on the grass nearby, the exhausted trainees sit sweaty and red-faced with their air packs and jackets off, the cold breeze a welcome reprieve after everything they’ve been through today. 

Once the last fire is out and the complex is cleared, the remainder of Station Fifteen’s crews file out of the smoking building. They’re pulling off helmets and hoods, masks and jackets, checking in and ensuring that everyone is accounted for before so much as sitting down. Everyone is visibly tired, but it’s the _good_ kind—this was a productive, successful day for all of them. The new recruits are learning, one step closer to being trustworthy and dependable in the field. The existing crews, likewise, had a chance to brush up on their skills and reaffirm trust between co-workers, which goes a long way for both practical proficiency _and_ morale. 

The burn building will take almost a full day to cool down before it can be checked for new damage. Normally, that task would fall to Bobby (and by extension in this case, Dean), but both of them are otherwise occupied tomorrow night, so Rufus will take care of it. Dean supposes he’ll have to thank Sammy for getting him out of that one, however unintentionally.

Speaking of which… as they’re finishing packing up their gear and readying the trucks to return to the station, Dean checks his watch. _Four-thirty._ Only an hour and a half until his shift is over and Cas will be meeting him at the station to head to the rehearsal. As Dean pulls himself up into the engine’s cab, he realizes he should dig out his phone and find out if Cas is going to take the bus or leave his car at Fifteen overnight. 

Either way is fine, but they’re both meant to go back to his and Sam’s place with the other groomsmen after dinner and Dean isn’t keen on him and Cas splitting up while Christian is around. _Cas will probably take the bus anyway,_ Dean thinks. He’s always ten steps ahead of Dean, not that Dean is complaining.

Just as he’s about to shove his hand down under his bunker pants and go fishing for his phone, Dean hears Benny put the entire station back on ready status with the 911 Center. That’s standard procedure, since they’re now capable of responding to calls if needed. It’s neither responsible nor considerate to the covering company to keep them tied up longer than necessary; after all, they have their own territories to worry about. 

They’ve been lucky (or Eleven’s been lucky, depending on your point of view)—the radio’s been quiet all day. As far as Dean knows, the only things Eleven responded to in their stead today were a minor accident with fluids down on the roadway (not serious and no injuries), a report of a gas odor in a residential neighborhood (unfounded), and an automatic fire alarm at the local Walmart (accidental activation, i.e., some asshole teenager pulled it). Really, Dean and his crews didn’t miss out on anything.

Of course, now that he could _use_ some quiet (or at least some easy-to-deal-with bullshit), things hit the fan. Dean barely has his fingers wrapped around his phone in his pocket when Fifteen’s tones drop over the radio alongside the tones for the station that houses the city’s high-angle rescue truck. A ladder truck is a ladder truck and a heavy rescue is a heavy rescue, but the city’s lucky enough to have a special, well-equipped technical rescue unit that’s built specifically for certain extreme situations. It’s not tapped for action very often and usually only by officer request, so the dispatch itself has Dean sitting up straight and listening with intent to what comes over his headset. 

_“...for a rescue, caller states the victim fell approximately twenty feet over the cliff side and has a visible broken leg. Victim is conscious, unable to move, EMS has been dispatched.”_

Dean exchanges a glance with Max, this is definitely the real deal. As their lights and sirens activate, Dean switches gears quickly, putting the rehearsal out of his mind. Instead of his evening plans, he’s immediately running through various protocols for high-angle rescue, adjusted for the need to backboard and for the victim’s inability to assist due to major injury. Since he’s trained as an EMT and has high-angle certification, it’s a near-certainty that Dean will be one of likely two responders that’ll be rappelling down to rescue this person. The other will probably be from Station 10, where the technical rescue is coming from. 

Just like that, all thoughts of Cas and checking his phone are shoved unceremoniously to the back of Dean’s head. He’s not worried—Cas will understand.

The engine carrying Benny, Dean, and the rest of his crew comes to a stop on the shoulder of the highway that borders the southern side of the city. Just ahead, the roadway passes over a river that’s bordered by steep rock face on both shores. Just on the other side of the shoulder’s guardrail, there’s a wide dirt strip and a path of trampled-over weeds that leads off into the woods. From experience, Dean knows that the path runs adjacent to and over fifty feet above the river.

In the summertime, the cops are constantly chasing kids away from this place. There’s an overlook down that path that’s hidden from view of the highway where they all like to gather and hang out, to do whatever it is teenagers do when no one’s watching. Drink, get high, have sex, whatever. That part isn’t so troublesome and problematic (hey, Dean was young once too), it’s what they do with the river itself that’s worrying.

At the edge of the clearing they use sits an outcropping of rock that juts out over the river, and it’s a magnetic draw for daredevils to treat like a diving board. If Dean had a nickel for every water rescue he’s done because someone jumped into that river in the wrong spot and got sucked into the current at the bottom, or broke their leg, or even hit their head on the water (it’s hard as concrete from that height) and knocked themselves unconscious, he could pay for Sammy’s wedding. Hell, he’s even had his fair share of idiots who didn’t realize they’d have to _swim_ once they jumped in. Always interesting. 

What anyone’s doing out here on a day like today, though, is beyond Dean. Jumping would be suicidal—the water’s fast-moving so it doesn’t ice, but it’s dangerously cold, colder than the air. Anyone dumb enough to jump would be paralyzed as soon as they plunged in; like a thousand knives stabbing all over your body, the shock alone might kill you. Dean’s been in the river at this time of year once before (in a _drysuit_ , of course) out of necessity—he wouldn’t wish the experience on his worst enemy.

Well, maybe Christian. 

As their crew gathers equipment and makes their way down to the scene, the situation becomes clear pretty quickly. Dean hikes his way down the dirt path as fast as his boots will carry him, emerging from some brush out into the clearing to find a sobbing teenage girl, still clutching her Iphone to her ear.

“Yes, they’re here now. Thank you. Thank you,” the girl cries, presumably to the 911 dispatcher doing their best to keep her calm. 

“What happened?” Dean asks, though when he looks around, it’s obvious.

“It broke!” The girl replies tearfully before dissolving into full-fledged sobs once more, anything else she might say after that indiscernible to Dean’s ear. He pats her on the shoulder and moves closer to the cliff’s edge. Sometime between last summer and now, the township must have tried installing a railing, thinking it would curb the jumping. It’s a good thought and Dean approves, except whoever installed it didn’t do the greatest job. From where Dean’s standing, it kind of looks like the thing gave way under the slightest pressure. Poor kid probably leaned against it and went right over, never stood a chance. 

_Yikes. No fuckin’ way this isn’t gonna end up in court,_ Dean thinks, dropping to his hands and knees before peering over the edge. 

About twenty feet below him, a teenage boy lays moaning and terrified, sprawled out on his back on a perilously small outcropping of rock. Below _him,_ at least twenty feet more, the river rushes mercilessly, white-capped and threatening. It even _looks_ cold, grey and sharp as it is, cutting around the rocks that crop up in its way. Despite himself, Dean shivers. _Evaluate the scene,_ he reminds himself, forcing his mind back onto the task at hand.

The boy is wearing a bright orange puffy vest and jeans that are splattered with blood, ripped straight through just below the knee by a bone that’s no longer inside the kid’s lower leg where it should be. Cringing, Dean suppresses his instinctual repulsion by putting himself in the kid’s shoes— _don’t make this about you, asshole._

“Hey!” he calls out. “Hey, buddy! Can you hear me?” In response, the kid just moans and nods. “Can you tell me your name, bud?” There’s no reply, the kid just squeezes his eyes shut and cries out in pain, lolling his head against the rock. That’s concerning; Dean can’t be sure that he didn’t hit his head, that he isn’t altered and out of it. The break in his leg could be in a worse place at least, kid definitely got lucky there, but this rescue needs to get a move on. “Okay,” he calls out again. “That’s okay, you’re okay. Just stay still, stay real still. I’m coming to get you.” 

Dean confers quickly with Benny, but they’re already on the same page. The technical rescue is pulling off of the road and onto the site, firefighters cutting down brush with chainsaws to make way for it to pull up as close as possible. That’s great, but Dean can’t imagine they’re going to be able to get it close enough to use for leverage. He pulls a hand over his mouth, relieved to see Jesse Cuevos hop down from the passenger’s side of the cab while the truck is still moving, nodding at Dean and heading straight for him.

As soon as he’s close enough, Jesse grabs Dean’s hand and yanks him into a back-clapping hug. “Was hoping it’d be you,” he says gratefully. “We doin’ this?” 

“Harness up,” Dean says in agreement, filling Jesse in on the scene that awaits them while Jesse grabs his harness from the truck and fits it around his own waist. Without asking (and while nodding along to Dean’s words), he steps in to check the one Dean’s donned and Dean lets him. Dean may have his certification, but Jesse is the expert and he’s happy to defer. No dick-measuring on Dean’s scenes, especially not when someone is literally about to throw themselves over a cliff. 

Practiced and proficient, Jesse’s team works together flawlessly, anchoring ropes to trees and to each other before clipping first Dean and then Jesse himself off with carabiners. The plan is for the two of them to rappel down, splint the kid’s leg (plus address anything else life-threatening that can’t be seen from twenty feet up), then get him onto the backboard. Once he’s secure, they’ll clip the backboard itself to even more ropes, and then it’ll be a coordinated effort from the crews above to first bring the board up and then the two of them. Climbing will most definitely be involved. 

Just before they drop over the edge, Jesse reaches out with his fist, Dean bumping it with a lot more confidence than he feels. As he arranges his ropes, Dean looks up to find Claire standing back at the treeline, watching intently. “Don’t you dare tell your uncle what I’m doing,” he calls out to her as he braces his feet against the edge and leans back over open space.

Claire’s eyes widen comically. “Like hell I want to deal with that,” she calls back. “But he’s probably listening to this cluster over the radio. Kaia said he was at the station when the ladder got back.” Something about Claire’s tone pricks at Dean’s spidey senses, but he just doesn’t have the bandwidth to sort it out at the moment, being halfway over a cliff and all. 

“Great,” Dean mutters to himself. Cas _hates_ when he puts himself in “unnecessary” danger, and undoubtedly will have something to say about Dean volunteering for this particular gig. Somehow he doubts, “Comes with the territory, Cas,” will be an adequate response. That’s a problem for future Dean, though. Present Dean is busy not careening to his death in the wild and freezing river forty feet below. 

Despite his dramatic thoughts, the rescue goes smoothly. The kid definitely did knock his head, but he’s the kind of confused that just wants to go to sleep, not the kind that gets combative and punchy when you try to help them, which is some kind of small miracle. Dean and Jesse work well together, communicating via radio with their crews above and stabilizing the patient efficiently in what feels like an _impossibly_ small space to work within. There’s no room for both him and Jesse to fit onto the ledge with the injured kid lying there, so Dean spends as much time hanging over the river with his toes on the rock as he does standing on solid ground. 

_Oh, yea. Cas would hate this._

They get the boy spinal immobilized in a cervical collar and on the backboard that’s carefully lowered down, his lower leg splinted with minimal screaming to a shortboard and then to the backboard itself. It’s times like these Dean wishes he was a paramedic—this kid _deserves_ pain management, but there’s nothing that he, as an EMT, is authorized to give. All Dean can do is handle him gently and get his ass topside as quickly as possible. There, the medic is waiting with a syringe of morphine ready to inject as soon as the patient is within reach. 

By the time the crews up top are yelling to each other and hoisting the board up and over Dean and Jesse’s heads, Dean’s sweating profusely despite the cold. He’s also feeling the kind of exhausted he suspects might be what marathon runners feel around mile twenty-six. In pain, burned out, having come _so_ far but still a ways to go that suddenly feels a _lot_ farther than it actually is.

While they wait for the go ahead to climb, Dean slumps against the blood-stained rock by Jesse’s side as they congratulate each other on a job well done. For a few minutes they sit in silence, and then Jesse pipes up with something completely out of left field.

“Hey,” he says, elbowing Dean in the ribs good-naturedly. “Congrats on Cas, man. Heard through the grapevine you two finally got your heads out of your asses. Always knew you would be good together.” 

Whether it’s the exhaustion he feels settling in his bones, the daunting thought of both the climb ahead and the entire _night_ Dean still has in front of him, or something completely else, Dean’s normal protests die on his tongue. “Thanks,” he replies weakly. “I—yea. Cas is great.” He’s saved from having to say anything further by their radios activating, letting them know the team is ready to bring them up. 

The climb is worse than Dean imagined, but hand over foot (and a lot of help from whoever’s reeling him in up top) he makes it. Lungs wheezing and arms burning, Dean pulls himself up and over the ledge with the help of Benny and Max. Both of them rush in to grab and drag him up by each of his arms. As soon as he’s vertical, Dean’s got a bottle of water pressed into his hand and a bunch of people clapping him on the back, congratulating him. All Dean wants is to _sit down._ And not on a ledge built into the side of a cliff.

Naturally, the ambulance is long gone, and Dean can’t wait to be gone too. He says a blurry and worn-out goodbye to Jesse, somehow finding himself agreeing to poker night with Cas sometime soon because Dean can’t be trusted with his best interests when he needs a nap. Despite that fact, he’s back in his seat in the engine before anything else dramatic can happen (or before he does something really dumb, like imply to more people that Cas loves him back). 

On the way to the station, Dean falls fast asleep, drool on his shoulder and all. Having shucked his bunker jacket, he curls up in Cas’ hoodie, which unfortunately now smells a lot more like smoke and his sweat and a lot less like Cas. It’s a knockout sort of nap and Dean only wakes because the backup alarm of the engine finding its place in the fire bay blasts discourteously in his ear. As he blinks sleepily and wipes wetness from the corner of his mouth, Dean hears Benny’s familiar “Ho!” to Victor as he spots his park job from behind the truck. He feels the air brakes engage before the engine finally stops and goes silent, and they’re home.

_What a relief._

Dean’s still yawning as he stumbles out of the cab, kicking off his fire-rated boots and stepping sleepily out of his bunker pants. There’s maybe twenty minutes left in his shift. The oncoming crew should already be here and no doubt, if a call comes in, he won’t be expected to take it. _Maybe,_ if he’s lucky, he can sack out on the couch for thirty minutes or so before Cas shows up and forces him to get presentable. Sam’s rehearsal doesn’t start until seven-thirty (buffered specifically for Dean’s work schedule, since working today meant he’d be off for the rest of the weekend). Plenty of time for a nap and then a quick shower. 

All of the gear worn in the burn buildings today needs to be laundered, and Dean’s thankful a few of the other city stations took some of the newbies’ stuff, or they’d be washing straight through until he’s due back in again on Monday. Officer gear takes priority, so Dean doesn’t bother checking in with Benny before emptying his pockets and dumping his pants, hood, and jacket straight into the open industrial washer at the side of the bay. It’s full, so he closes it up, checks the settings and detergent level, and sets it to work.

Out of the corner of Dean’s eye, he sees Benny talking to someone, maybe one of the guys from the oncoming crew, which isn’t unusual. What _is_ unusual are the covert glances they’re both shooting him, and the way Benny saunters over _way_ too casually while Dean’s still trying to put the unwashable parts of his gear back on the rack. 

“Dude,” Dean says with a heavy sigh, scrubbing a hand through his sweaty hair as he turns to face Benny. He motions with his hand for Benny to just give it to him. “Out with it, come on. I’m too fuckin’ tired to play games right now.”

Benny lifts an eyebrow as he leans casually against the rescue truck, arms folded across his chest. Around them, their co-workers continue about their business, laying hose line out to drain and dry, checking tools, generally putting the vehicles, the station, and themselves back in order. “Cas is here,” he says simply, face giving away nothing.

“Okay?” Dean replies, somewhat confused. So Cas is early, big deal. Or maybe he’s just visiting—they all do that all the time, medics and firefighters alike. When all your friends are also your co-workers and downtime is part of the job, it kinda follows that work sometimes becomes a place to play. Hell, Dean’s passed out here and at Station Eleven more times than he can count. It’s fun to end the night shooting the shit with friends, plus, safer than trying to drive home tipsy or worse—staying the night with a bar hookup. Benny acting weird over Cas being in the building is way stranger than the fact that Cas is here. 

“He’s upstairs in the bathroom of the men’s bunkroom, folding laundry.” Alright, that’s a little bit odd, but Dean’s not one to judge. Maybe Cas got bored waiting for him and was just being considerate. There’s a regular washer and a dryer in that bathroom for crews to wash bed linens or uniforms, the laundry basket was probably overflowing and Cas is a team player, a good guy. There’s a nudge at the back of Dean’s mind that tells him he’s working pretty hard to paint this scenario as perfectly normal, but is there really a reason not to?

“So?”

“Cher, he’s washed and sorted every piece of linen we have in this entire building. Maybe the whole city, I dunno. Towels, bedsheets, dishrags—you name it, Feathers has folded it. Twice. Something’s going on with your boy. Better go find and fix it before he figures out he can’t fold his way back to sanity and has a full-on breakdown in my bunkroom.” 

“Right,” Dean replies distractedly, pulling a hand over his mouth. Before Benny can finish talking, Dean’s already backing towards the stairs that lead up to the second floor, where the crew and bunk rooms are. 

Benny clears his throat. “Dean,” he says pointedly, following Dean across the room with a worried look on his face.

“Yeah?” Dean does his best to focus on his Captain. He _is_ still on the clock, after all, but he’s unprepared for Benny to reach out and grasp the edge of his t-shirt sleeve, tugging it up to reveal most of Cas’ scarred handprint on his arm. The weather’s been cold since Cas put it there, so Dean’s made a habit of wearing long sleeves, generally not having to worry about accidentally showing off his scabs when they were healing. These days, though, the handprint is fairly inconspicuous and mostly white, but still obvious if you’re looking for or directly at it. 

“Fuck off,” he snaps reflexively, jerking away from Benny’s touch. Dean glares defensively but Benny doesn’t react, just hesitates for a moment before shaking his head and waving him off. Thank god, because Dean does _not_ have time for this bullshit right now.

“Be careful,” is all Benny says, and Dean nods automatically before turning on his heel and heading up the steps. He’ll deal with Benny later. Halfway up, Dean remembers his phone, pulling it out to find an astronomical number of missed calls and messages. There’s exactly one text from Sam—he was the trauma surgeon on duty at Central’s ER today and got to hear about Dean’s heroics first-hand from the rescued kid with the broken leg. He sent a joke about Dean not having to throw himself off a cliff to get out of having dinner with Christian and Brady, and any other time, Dean would have found it hilarious. 

Unfortunately, his mind is focused on the twenty or so odd other messages, all from one person. 

_Cas: I know you’re busy, just checking in._

_Cas: Please let me know that you’re doing well when you have a free moment._

_Cas: Apologies for the messages, you know how I worry._

_Cas: Hope your day is going well. Text me when you have the chance, it would be nice to know that you’re feeling okay._

_Cas: My day could be better. If you have a moment, could you call? Two minutes, no more, I promise._

_Cas: I know you’re busy. I’m so sorry._

_Cas: Dean, I hate to be a bother, but I really need to speak to you. It’s urgent._

There are a few more, all similar, and Dean’s stomach drops. It’s not hard to figure out what’s happening here, out of left field as it may be for Cas. The last unread message causes a wave of fear and nausea to roll through Dean, and goosebumps to rise on his arms. If he wasn’t already aware that Cas is safe and sound less than fifty feet away, he might actually panic.

_Cas: If you_

That’s it. “ _If you”,_ and nothing else _._ Dean can’t remember the last time he received a text from Cas with so much as a typo, never mind a sentence that wasn’t even finished. It’s one of those weird, nerdy little quirks he loves about the guy—who the hell bothers to punctuate their texts before sending, or refuses to shorten words on principle? It all amounts to one thing, and that’s the unavoidable fact that Cas is dropping. Cas is dropping, has likely been since they were together, and Dean ignored him for almost _twelve hours._ Jesus Christ, he’s an asshole. 

Despite the way his eyes ache and his muscles still burn from the day’s activities, begging him to sit the fuck down already, Dean puts that all aside for Cas. It’s damn near torture to sprint up the remaining stairs two at a time but he does it, bursting through the door at the top and ignoring the chorus of greetings that erupt from his various coworkers scattered around the crew room. With a grunt and a half-hearted wave, Dean doesn’t stop, bolting directly out into the hallway that leads past the charting room and the offices down to the bunkrooms.

There’s a light on in the windowless bathroom in the men’s bunk, and Dean beelines straight for it. As he rounds the corner from the hall, he stumbles, having to grab onto the frame of the door for balance because he’s moving too fast, nearly sending himself headfirst over the twin bed closest to the door. Once he’s steady, Dean takes exactly two seconds to stop in his tracks and drag _one_ deep breath into his lungs. 

_Calm,_ he reminds himself. He has to be calm for Cas because Cas needs him. All day, every damn day, Cas worries about Dean, puts his needs first, is _there_ for him in ways no one in Dean’s life has ever bothered to be. And this is how Dean’s repaid him—by completely missing the boat the _one_ time Cas needed him to do the same. If he wasn’t so busy cursing himself out for his mistakes, Dean might be more concerned about what exactly he’s going to do when he finally gets to Cas, but as it is, he doesn’t give himself the chance to dwell. He’ll figure it the fuck out.

The muted yellow glow of cheap incandescent lighting spills out around the partially closed door to the bathroom, and Dean reaches to push it open without hesitation. Despite Benny’s warning, he’s pretty unprepared for the sight that meets his eyes. Cas’ back is to him, dressed simply in dark jeans and a blue-gray button down. He looks… okay, at least from behind. Like he’s showered and reasonably well-put together, which Dean can’t say he expected. When he was dropping, he barely had it in him to swipe some deodorant on. 

Still, there’s a tenseness in the buff line of Cas’ shoulders, a stilted awkwardness to how he’s folding the flat sheet in front of him. As Dean stands there and watches, still unnoticed, Cas finishes with the sheet and places it gently on top of the stack closest to him. Benny wasn’t exaggerating about the linen, that’s for sure—there are multiple stacks of towels and bed clothes lined up that all go the better part of the way towards the ceiling. 

From where he’s standing, Dean can even recognize a bunch of the oil rag junk towels they keep down in the bay for spills and maintenance—Cas would have had to sniff those out and drag the bin of them all the way up here _just_ to wash and fold them. _What the fuck?_ As Dean stares, Castiel pauses in his motions and Dean thinks that maybe he’s finished. His eyes are drawn to Cas’ hand as it brushes over the pocket his pants have sewn at the hip, tracing the outline of his phone before clenching into a fist at his side. 

_Oh, Cas._

Before Dean can react, Cas reaches out and uses one finger to mechanically tip a stack of towels onto its side, undoing all of his (pointless) hard work. Swallowing the urge to call Castiel “sweetheart,” Dean steps forward and places a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Cas,” he says softly. 

Once again, Dean’s unprepared. The look on Castiel’s face when he whirls around is sad and desperate, his eyes red-rimmed and dark underneath. As soon as he sees Dean, the puppet strings snap, and Cas loses whatever tenuous grip on his composure he was clinging to. “Dean,” he mutters with obvious relief, flinging himself into Dean’s chest, and Dean takes it back—there’s nothing put-together about this. 

“Hey,” he soothes, letting Castiel octopus his limbs around him and returning the gesture by wrapping one arm tightly around his back, his other hand cupping Cas’ head. “Hey, shh. It’s alright. I’m here, Cas. I’m here. Cas, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into Castiel’s ear, feeling the way his friend’s body shakes beneath his hands. “I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve checked my phone. There’s no excuse, I didn’t even think—” 

“It’s not your fault,” Castiel says quietly, pulling back barely enough to look Dean in the eyes. There’s more to his expression than what should be obvious, and Dean abruptly realizes there’s something going on here other than hormones. That’s as far as he can get on his own though—he’s got no fucking clue what Cas might be feeling, and beyond that—comforting a Dom? Dean’s way, _way_ out of his depth. The only thing he can do— _and he can do this for Cas—_ is use his goddamn words like an adult. 

“Cas, talk to me,” Dean says sharply, grabbing Castiel by his biceps and steering him over to the toilet. Using his foot, Dean kicks the lid down and sits Castiel on top. It’s unnerving how easily Cas lets himself be moved, how little resistance he puts up. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think his cocky Dom who hates being ordered around and loves to be obeyed had been body-snatched. 

Dean crouches down in front of the toilet, hands on Castiel’s thighs. “You _have_ to talk to me,” he says. “Listen, sweetheart, I want to help you. I’m not going to leave you or judge you or whatever the hell you’re worried about but—buddy, I’m treading water here. Understand? Tell me what you need and it’s yours, but I need something…” He trails off, tapped out on that analogy.

“To hold onto,” Castiel finishes weakly, nodding before sighing with apparent exhaustion. He looks like he’s going to launch into some long-winded explanation but then he just stops and thrusts his hand out, looping a finger through Dean’s belt hole. “Can you…” 

This, Dean doesn’t need to be told twice, and even though it’s awkward and there would be a _thousand_ better places to do this than the seat of a toilet in the men’s sleeping quarters of a firehouse, that’s what they have to work with. So he goes, because _this_ isn’t something he needs explained, straddling Castiel easily and drawing him in to his chest. 

“Got you, Cas,” Dean murmurs, stroking down his back, and finally, Castiel relaxes. It’s minute, and he can tell they have a long way to go, but Dean can feel Cas melting incrementally into the warmth of his body, pressed tight between him and the porcelain water tank. God, Dean hopes that someday they can look back on this and laugh. 

“You smell like fire,” Castiel observes quietly into the fabric of Dean’s shirt, and he sounds a lot more like himself, which makes Dean smile but also tear up, just a little. Not that Castiel can see, he’s busy doing his best to make a permanent imprint of his face on Dean’s neck. 

“I smell like ass,” Dean retorts, working his fingers into Castiel’s scalp and hoping this is helping, that it’s working, that he’s being what Cas needs right now. “Showering was pretty high on my list of things to do before you showed up. Is this…?” 

“It’s good,” Castiel replies quickly, arms tightening around Dean’s waist. “Dean, I am so—” The way Cas is plastered against him, Dean can feel the way he shakes, the way the sob catches in his throat and rattles his chest. “I’m sorry,” he manages to blurt out, after a minute that Dean spends horrified and frozen, unsure what to do. Still hiding his face, Cas continues, sounding completely broken and miserable. “I’m sorry that I neglected our aftercare and I’m sorry I pestered and didn’t trust you to know your own feelings and limits. I’m sorry for showing up here and bothering you now.” 

“Cas,” Dean starts, but falters. Fortunately, Castiel doesn’t seem to notice, busy clinging and running hands up and down Dean’s back as he is.

“I _am_ sorry, but also, I’m so very relieved you’re safe.”

“I was fine,” Dean protests. “I wouldn’t have left your place if I wasn’t. And I wouldn’t have hid that from you, if something came on later. Cas, why are you talking like you did something wrong, here?” When Castiel just shrugs and sniffles, Dean decides he’s had enough. He wraps hands around Cas’ shoulders and gently pushes him back so they can look each other in the eyes. _Damn, he looks miserable._ Dean wants so badly to kiss him, to tell him how much he’s wanted and loved. If ever there was a time… 

But he doesn’t. Reluctantly, Dean settles for circling his arms around Castiel’s neck and scratching soothingly into the hairs at the nape of his neck. “Dude,” he says gently. “If anyone fucked up here, it’s me. I should have checked in with you at least once. I should have made sure you knew I was fine. Next time, I will, I promise. I’m glad you came here.” 

Castiel’s face flushes with obvious shame. “I shouldn’t have _had_ to. I know better than this, I—” He breaks off with a frustrated, rough exhale and shakes his head. “I understand that you felt fine today, but I _still_ believe I dropped the ball by not allowing for proper aftercare. It’s part of why I spiraled. And then I—oh, Dean, I’ve been such a mess.” The tears well up in Castiel’s eyes again and Dean dries them swiftly with some toilet paper ripped off of the roll to their right.

“Spiral seems like the right word,” Dean offers, trying to be open and neutral, so that Castiel keeps talking and gives him some sort of clue about where to go with this. 

As he watches intently, Cas closes his eyes briefly and nods. “It’s very apt. Please believe me Dean, I trust you to know yourself. I trust you to communicate with me.” He motions to his head. “It’s… hard to control, as you know, once you’re in it. I kept telling myself that I needed to wait, to believe that you were fine and would come to me if you weren’t, but I _worried._ And I started thinking about worst case scenarios, how if you _did_ drop and perhaps even injured yourself at work because of it—how that would be all my fault, how I would have failed you, how I don’t deserve—” 

The barely choked off sobs threatening to overtake Castiel’s composure finally get their way and he breaks down, shoulders slumping and chin dropping to his chest. He doesn’t lean forward to seek comfort from Dean, and Dean understands why—Cas is still deep _in_ this spiral, still berating and blaming himself and logic isn’t going to cut it to get him out. 

“I _never_ should have pushed to do that scene this morning,” he cries as Dean yanks him close and holds him tight, rocking him gently. “I don’t deserve you, Dean,” he continues, barely audible, into Dean’s shirt.

“Whoa, hey, first of all,” Dean interjects, because that’s _bullshit,_ all of it. “I _wanted_ to scene this morning. I asked for it and you gave me what we both thought I needed. Cas, this isn’t new territory for us. We tried something, it didn’t work. We won’t do it again. This ain’t any different then any other time that’s happened. Buddy, I can’t even count the times you stopped a scene or changed it because it wasn’t working for one of us. I don’t agree that you made a mistake, but if _you_ feel that way, you know, I’m not gonna tell you not to feel your fuckin’ feelings. They’re yours to be wrong about.” 

In his arms, Cas actually chuckles a little, and Dean smiles against his hair, pleased that he’s not, at least, blatantly making this worse. “I—” _love you, love you so fuckin’ much, you idiot. Let me love you, love me back. You deserve love, asshole. “—_ need you, Cas. So don’t be trying to get rid of me with this ‘don’t deserve you’ crap, it pisses me off.” 

“You trusted me,” Castiel mutters, turning his head so that his ear is against the top of Dean’s chest, but at least Dean can understand what he’s saying now. “You trusted me and I did… this. I hear you, Dean, but I still feel…” he trails off, a hand coming up to cover his face. “This drop is telling me that I don’t deserve you, that I shouldn’t be a Dom at all. When I think about what I put you through when we got together and now…” Castiel shrugs sadly, but doesn’t sob again. He just sags listlessly against Dean’s chest and clings. 

“Alright,” Dean says slowly, thinking carefully through his next move. “Listen, I could tell you how dumb that is until your ears bleed, promise that you won’t feel that way forever, but I know what it’s like to be all up in your own head. How about this, you trust me?” When Castiel nods, his hair brushes against Dean’s jaw, tickling it. “Kay, give me a minute.”

Without getting up, Dean extracts his phone from his pocket and fires off a text message. Less than five minutes later, there’s a knock on the bunkroom door, and Castiel jolts upright, alarmed. “Don’t worry,” Dean soothes. “It’s just Benny dropping my bag off. I’m going to get up and grab it, and then I’ll be back, okay? It’s six o’clock, I’m off duty. I’m not gonna leave you, Cas, you hear me?” In a role reversal that has even him spinning, Dean grabs Castiel’s chin and forces him to look up. “Sir,” he adds softly, and Cas’ eyes well up again almost immediately, but he nods.

As quickly as he can move, Dean grabs the duffle bag from where it’s been dropped outside the door, not bothering to look down the hallway and see who’s gawking and trying to snoop on them. It’s a firehouse, so Dean’s sure there’s someone, but fuck ‘em. When he steps back inside the bathroom, Castiel’s still sitting on the toilet, blowing his nose and generally looking like he’s working really damn hard to keep it together. 

Closing the door behind him, Dean drops his bag, turns on the shower, and then strips before dropping into a crouch and removing Cas’ shoes and socks. He doesn’t ask before taking Castiel by the hand and hauling him to his feet, finally following his instincts to lean in and kiss him softly. It’s meant to be nothing but reassuring, and Castiel seems to take it that way, making a sad little noise in the back of his throat when their lips meet. Wordlessly, Dean relieves him of the rest of his clothing, folding each piece neatly and leaving them in a pile at the edge of the sink. 

By the time they’re stepping into the shower, Dean leading and Castiel following him so trustingly, Cas is looking slightly less devastated. It’s enough of the old Castiel peeking through that Dean feels comfortable deviating a _little_ from the panicked _comfortcomfortcomfort_ mode he’s shoehorned himself into out of necessity. Under the hot spray, he drags Castiel close and rests one hand on his lower back, grabbing Castiel’s hand with his other and lacing their fingers together.

“Are we… dancing?” Castiel asks, a small smile gracing his handsome, if still sad, face. Dean just grins down at him and shuffles them around the small space as best he can until Castiel gives in and laughs, wrapping an arm around Dean’s neck. The silly dancing turns to just holding each other close, turns to Castiel soaping Dean up, turns to Dean kissing Castiel up against the shower wall without even really thinking about what it is he’s doing.

It’s only after, when the water’s turned off and Castiel’s visibly feeling better, when they’re dry and buttoned up into their nice clothing for Sam’s rehearsal, that it even occurs to Dean that what they did in the shower was _not_ necessarily within the parameters of their negotiated contract. It _definitely_ wasn’t platonic friend behavior either, so what does he do with that? Where does that leave him? Where does it leave _them?_

Maybe he’s thinking too much. Cas needed him, Dean gave him what he needed. He supposes it’s as simple as that. Speaking of which…

“C’mon,” Dean says, looping an arm through Castiel’s. “You’ve been in here folding for hours, you’ve gotta be starving. We’ll get you a burger on the way to the church, alright?”

Castiel stops him at the bunkroom door, right before Dean can pull it open. “Thank you,” he says simply, letting his arm drop so that he can slip a hand into Dean’s and squeeze. “Not just for—” he motions towards the bathroom. “That. But for trusting me. For believing in us.” 

Surprised, Dean squeezes back. “I told you,” he says. “I need you.” 

“Yes,” Castiel replies, holding Dean’s eye contact this time, all on his own, and Dean feels not just relieved, but proud of himself. “I need you, too.”

“Then let’s go, sunshine.” 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cas' POV through the rehearsal + dinner will be up tomorrow.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _These eyes sitting on the wall,  
>  well they watch every move I make.  
> Bright light taking in the shape,  
> you go hard, makes my spirit shake._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the conclusion of the last chapter, from Cas' POV!
> 
> chapter warnings: douchebag Christian, homophobic language, minor violence, outside-the-bedroom d/s dynamic, public sex, mutual masturbation, blowjobs

It’s a wonder what a little food and some affection from Dean can do to turn Cas’ mood around. The inside of his head is still a bit of a jumbled mess, riddled with guilt and the shadows of things that he knows better than to believe in, though they haunt him nonetheless. 

It’s been years since Castiel has experienced a drop like that, not since he first began experimenting in the scene and done some casual subbing just to learn what it was like to be on “the other side.” While he hadn’t particularly enjoyed the experience of being dominated, it was at least useful to understand what his subs go through, and for that, Castiel is glad he did it. Still, he’d encountered some real assholes, people who called themselves “Doms” but were really just horny bullies with consent issues that liked to be called “Daddy.” People who didn’t seem to understand that submission is a gift, a privilege, and that all subs deserve both respect and something in return for the things they offer up. 

Thankfully (perhaps by pure luck), Castiel never found himself in a situation where he was in danger or an encounter went farther than he was willing to go. He’d by lying, though, if he said his early experiences weren’t a significant part of why he didn’t want Dean dipping his toes _anywhere_ near the local scene on his own. 

Yes, Castiel’s initial offer to Dean to act as his Dom was partially selfish—but Castiel’s always been open with Dean and their mutual friends about the scene and his involvement in it. He’s had plenty of conversations with Dean—both with and without others present—to notice Dean’s interest, to see where it was leading. If Castiel _hadn’t_ offered to take him under his wing, it would have only been a matter of time before Dean sought a Dom out for himself.

All of those things came back to bite Castiel in the ass today. Never particularly experiencing drop as a Dom (though, now, he’s wondering if he didn’t have a little bit happening at the beginning of his and Dean’s relationship, back when he was too focused on _Dean_ to realize it), the intense wave of emotions took him by surprise, to say the least. The feelings themselves were recognizable, sure, but they were also intertwined with guilt and self-recrimination in a way he had no reason to feel back when he was a sub. Thus, it was a lot harder for him to cope. 

_This_ drop was centered around _Dean,_ because what doesn’t for Castiel these days? More specifically, it flooded his brain with all the times Castiel failed him, the ways he let him down—whether logical or not. 

Most importantly, from the beginning, Castiel had promised to keep Dean _safe._ That was the reasoning that pushed him to offer himself up to Dean to begin with, to overlook the threat of having his feelings exposed for _Dean’s_ sake, _Dean’s_ well-being. _Castiel_ was supposed to be the better choice, the safe choice, the one who would always put Dean and his best interests first; purely, reliably, and without hesitation. 

After today’s events, it’s clear to Castiel that the trust Dean placed in him to do that very thing has been blown to smithereens not once, but _twice,_ at least _._ First, when he didn’t recognize that Dean was dropping, or notice what Dean needed to _not_ feel that way, and second when Castiel didn’t trust his gut on _always_ creating space and time to _give those things_ to him. 

The hard truth is, they’d played with fire this morning. Whether Dean did or didn’t actually drop after he left the apartment is irrelevant. That is what Castiel’s ultimately decided, after copious agonizing over folded laundry and angsty brooding while waiting for Dean to show up. Facts are facts. Regardless of things working out, Dean _could_ have dropped, and if so, it would have happened because _Castiel_ relaxed the strict boundaries for the affection and reassurance he _knows_ Dean needs after a scene. 

All in the name of, what? Getting off?

Sure, Dean wanted something this morning, perhaps even needed it. That’s not in dispute. But Dean always wants things, always needs them, and it’s not just Castiel’s job to deliver, it’s his damn obligation to do it _safely._ And if it can’t be done safely, it shouldn’t be done at all. That’s supposed to be rule number one in his own damn playbook. 

Admittedly, Castiel had gotten caught up this morning. Dean does that to him, but it’s not an excuse.

Around four a.m., Dean had woken up anxious and flailing about in the bed, very unlike his usual motionless sleep of the dead. Usually, he knocks out like a rock after they scene, not moving around until morning, especially when Castiel’s curled around him or vice versa. Not today.

Most assuredly, Dean hadn’t meant to wake Castiel up, but with all the huffing and flopping he was doing, that was probably inevitable. Some minor coaxing from Cas had Dean reluctantly admitting that he was stressed about the day ahead—his leadership role in the fire training scenarios, especially when it came to the new recruits, mostly. But that wasn’t all—those worries were also piled on top of the self-inflicted stress of being the best brotherly support system for Sam he can be while simultaneously tiptoeing around those two assholes Sam insists on being friends with. 

At the time, the solution to all of this had seemed obvious to Castiel. And to Dean, of course. Expending stress and anxiety is what he and Dean _do_ together, it’s the major purpose their altered relationship serves in Dean’s life. It’s what keeps Dean coming back to Castiel, night after night. And so what if they were pushing the time frame for decent aftercare? They’d risked a few casual scenes before when one of them had to be somewhere else soon after. Although, when Castiel reflects back, he does realize that none of those had ended with _zero_ cuddling, and _maybe_ he overlooked that, just a little, because it wasn’t convenient to what he wanted to do.

The bottom line is, Castiel truly believes he put Dean at risk (again), whether Dean agrees with him or not. That knowledge makes him feel terrible, like the worst person in the world, _especially_ because of how much he loves Dean, _especially_ because of how he made specific promises to never do this very thing. 

It all just overwhelmed him—the feelings compounding and dragging Castiel down into a shame spiral, one that made his need to see Dean, to feel with his own hands that he was _alive_ and _okay,_ to hear with his own ears that he still _wanted_ Castiel, regardless of whether that was right, or whether he should or shouldn’t. The whole concept of invading Dean’s space at work, of adding to the burden already on his shoulders, of embarrassing Dean and humiliating himself and—

It wasn’t good. Hence, the folding and the isolation. Channeling his anxiety and rage at himself into something mundane and rote, away from other people but as close to Dean as he could get for the time being. It worked, enough to get Castiel through until Dean showed up, anyway. 

But Dean—sweet, intuitive, forgiving Dean—Castiel is entirely certain that he can never repay him. One thing is for sure, if he didn’t love Dean with every fiber of his being _before,_ he’d surely have gone tumbling headfirst over the cliff after today. And whether Dean thinks so or not, Castiel _knows_ with absolute certainty—he does not deserve this man. While he may get to keep him regardless of that fact, that doesn’t make it less true, and Castiel will spend the rest of the time Dean gifts him with making it up to him. 

As he crumples the empty cheeseburger wrapper in his hands, making sure there are no stray crumbs littering Baby’s otherwise pristine seats, Castiel can’t help but glance over at Dean now. His heart races in his chest to find Dean already smiling back, the lines at the corners of his eyes giving away that he’s _truly_ happy. He’s not playing for Castiel’s sake, not simply acting because he thinks it’s what Castiel needs right now (although, that’s not incorrect). 

All too soon, Dean has to turn his gaze back to the road, but Castiel can’t stop looking, can’t stop marveling at how _unbelievably_ lucky he is to have a friend like Dean. Something twists in his gut, enough that he physically has to put a hand on his stomach. From the moment Dean walked into the bathroom, to the sweet dancing moment in the shower, to Dean’s kisses and their unexpected exchange of “I need yous”s back in the bunkroom—Castiel might be crazy, might be dreaming, might be straight up seeing what he wants to see, but something feels different. 

It doesn’t help him sort out that question to know that Dean _was_ quite obviously giving Castiel everything he thought he needed to pull him out of his major drop. That is true, and it _could_ explain all of Dean’s behavior, all of their affectionate interactions away. But going with his gut is something Castiel’s _always_ regretted not doing when it comes to Dean, both today and any other time he’s resisted. 

And his gut says something is shifting between them. Something good. Something Castiel _wants_ more than he can put words to and is beyond afraid to name, at least, when it comes to Dean and how Dean feels about _him._ If it _is_ true, Castiel needs to tread carefully, slowly. A lot of his relationship with Dean—even before they added the BDSM and the sex—was one step forward, two steps back. That’s just how Dean is, and it’s taken Castiel years to learn how to handle him. This—whatever’s happening between them—can’t be treated any differently. 

One agonizingly slow minute at a time, then onto the next. 

On a lighter note, Dean looks positively stunning right now, behind the wheel of his Baby. Despite his long day and unquestionable exhaustion, he’s beautiful. He’s also surprisingly bright, his five o’clock shadow looking intentional and roguish, the tight fit of his button down perfectly accentuating his lovely body, even under his ( _not_ weather-appropriate) leather jacket. Of course, Dean always looks beautiful, but tonight, Castiel can’t take his eyes off of him. So much so that he’s nearly gawking as Dean exits their vehicle, stepping out into the evening chill and the dim light of a nearly-set sun. 

They’re parked on the street just outside the ornate church where Jess and Sam are tying the knot tomorrow afternoon, and—likely due in part to the near-freezing temperatures—no one is waiting to greet them. In fact, the street itself is oddly quiet, traffic low and slow and no one out walking on the sidewalks. Perhaps it’s the negligent risk that makes Castiel brave, but reason aside, when the urge strikes him to reach out and slip one hand into Dean’s, he doesn’t think twice.

The residual static in Castiel’s head, the whispering ghosts repeating that he’s _not_ good enough, _not_ worthy, poof and evaporate like dust in the wind when Dean turns his face towards Castiel and _smiles._ Blinding, absolute sunshine and the light at the end of Castiel’s sometimes very dark tunnel, he finds himself barely able to breathe with that look directed his way. Whistling and happy as a clam, Dean fails to notice anything off in his demeanor. Dragging Castiel determinedly up the stone steps of the church, he pulls open one of the _very_ heavy wooden double doors and sweeps Castiel inside ahead of him without pause. 

On the other side of the door, Sam, Jess, and all of the other bridesmaids and groomsmen are gathered in the lobby. Castiel scans faces and accounts for all of their friends plus Jess’ parents, lingering off to the side of the group alongside Bobby Singer and Ellen Harvelle. The latter two are standing in as the father and mother of the groom, respectively, and Castiel knows Sam is both grateful and proud to have them there. 

Still holding Castiel’s hand, Dean waves and grins at everyone, echoing greetings and one-arming a hug with first Jess and then Sam so that he doesn’t have to let go. Watching that happen and feeling Dean’s grip tighten around his own nearly makes Castiel lose it all over again. He truly doesn’t deserve someone so _good,_ so considerate and giving. And Dean is neither wearing his collar nor did they negotiate anything like this ahead of time. He’s just… _Dean,_ holding Castiel’s hand, because he wants to. 

“‘Bout time,” Christian scoffs when Dean and Sam separate, despite Sam being nothing but smiles and good cheer at the arrival of his brother. Castiel can almost _feel_ the room drop twenty degrees just from the icy sneer in his voice, the chilling disdain in his tone. “You two are really making a habit of being late, huh? No respect for your brother and his wife, always getting up to some bullshit together that’s more important than your commitments, aren’t you? Wonder what it was this time?” He’s openly mocking, and even Brady puts a hand on his shoulder, mumbling something under his breath that Castiel can’t hear but that makes Christian roll his eyes. 

Before things can escalate (and Castiel feels Dean’s entire body tensing and radiating anger beside him, so it’s just a matter of time), Sam and Jess’ officiant sweeps in from the sanctuary and unwittingly saves the couple’s rehearsal from devolving into a blood bath. At least, for now.

“Good evening to my happy couple, welcome to all the family and friends!” The priest is an older man with gray hair and kind eyes, casually dressed in his black clerical shirt, pants, and collar. Seemingly grateful for the distraction, everyone pivots physically to hear what he has to say, budding spat forgotten. 

Everyone, that is, except for Dean, Christian, and Castiel. And Bobby, actually, Castiel notices—the fire chief is eyeing up Christian with a furious expression that suggests he might actually be more of a danger to the guy then Dean is, should shit hit the fan. It’s only Ellen’s insistent tugging at his elbow that seemingly keeps him where he is, but Castiel’s fairly certain that if Christian doesn’t knock it off, they all might be attending a funeral tomorrow instead of a wedding.

Even as the priest talks, reviewing the procedures for the next day, the relevant parts of the ceremony and what each of their roles are, Dean and Christian continue shooting daggers at each other with their eyes. Dean has to finally let go of Castiel’s hand when they pair off to walk down the aisle, but he’s escorting Jo, who quietly reassures Castiel with a hand on his arm that she’ll have Dean’s back and that she “has a knife in her boot,” which Castiel isn’t sure whether or not he’s supposed to be comforted by. 

For his part, Castiel’s paired with one of Jess’ nursing friends, April, and the way she eyes him up is the _last_ thing Castiel needs to deal with right now. Doing his best to politely brush her off, Castiel genially offers his arm and then quietly hums noncommittal acknowledgment to any comments or flirtations she directs his way. The two of them are following behind Dean and Jo in the procession, and Castiel goes through the motions of practicing their joint part routinely, all without dragging his eyes away from his best friend. 

“Really gone on him, huh?” April murmurs, when they’re halfway down the aisle. 

Jess’ wedding coordinator is hollering at Dean to, “slow down, take your time, it isn’t a race!” from across the room.

“What? Oh,” Castiel replies distractedly. “No, I—” He lifts his eyebrows and shakes his head. “Just hoping to avoid this whole thing turning into a bad tribute to a _Game of Thrones_ episode.” April laughs and leans into his side, very clearly turning on the charm. She’s conventionally attractive, and maybe in another time and place Castiel could be interested in getting to know her, but she couldn’t hold a candle to Dean on her best day, and today is _not_ that. 

At the foot of the altar, he and April separate, and Castiel takes his place beside Dean. The rest of the rehearsal goes flawlessly. Dean produces ring pops from his pocket in place of the real thing, which makes everyone laugh and lightens the lingering tension significantly. Sam and Jess are adorable. They can’t stop touching each other, or smiling and laughing stupidly, the way two people who are madly in love tend to do. Their priest is charismatic and has a good sense of humor, everyone seems relaxed and confident in their roles, and by the time they’re all walking out the front door of the church, things actually seem like they might work out. Most importantly, Christian keeps his damn mouth shut. 

“You’re doing fine,” Castiel reassures Dean, as they descend the steps back to Dean’s car when everyone temporarily splits to relocate to the restaurant a few streets over. “You can’t let him bait you, Dean,” he continues as they both slide into the front seat and Dean turns Baby around. “If we both hadn’t been through so much today, I’d suggest a bit of ‘stress relief’ in the back seat before heading in to eat, but honestly, I think we might be tempting the gods at this point. If it were up to me, we’d certainly be in bed together right now, but sleeping, not fucking.” 

That makes Dean laugh, loud and unexpected, and after he’s parked, he reaches out to grasp the side of Castiel’s head firmly. “Thank you,” he says sincerely, his expression sobering. “Dunno how I’d get through this without you. Sam deserves better than me losing my cool over some douchenozzle and his badly dealt with internalized homophobia.” 

Castiel just smiles and peels Dean’s hand from his head, threading their fingers together once again in his lap. “I hope you know that I feel the same,” he says, and then rolls his eyes. “About you, not about the self-hating asshole. Though, I do agree with your assessment.” 

Something outside their window distracts Dean, catching his attention and making him growl under his breath. Unsurprisingly, it’s Christian, flipping them two middle fingers as he passes by the car on his way towards the restaurant. “Down, Dean,” Castiel says immediately, kind but firm as Dean bristles. He squeezes Dean’s hand. “Be my good boy.” 

Next to him, Dean visibly struggles but relents, relaxing slightly as Christian and Brady head inside and out of sight. “Good boy,” Castiel reiterates, and Dean blows out a breath, nodding like he’s psyching himself up. 

“Yea,” he says, still staring at the restaurant door, and Castiel can almost see his mindset shifting. Is he— _really?_ “Alright. I can be good for you, Sir. That’s what Sam would want.” 

Castiel’s _floored._ Dean’s slipping into sub-mode by mere suggestion, just to get himself through a difficult moment where he feels he may lose control. If the two of them hadn’t been blurring lines left and right all night, Castiel might stop him, might drag him out of it, but this—this is something _new._ This has nothing to do with sex, and it isn’t even about _Castiel_ at _all._ It’s a risk, for sure, but it wasn’t his suggestion, and maybe it’s not his choice to make. If this is what Dean wants, Castiel can support him through it, can look out for and protect him while he does. After all, that’s what he’s meant to have been doing all along.

“Let’s go inside, Dean.”

Dinner goes smoothly, and Castiel is both surprised and impressed at Dean’s motivated demonstration of self-control. Sam and Jess are completely wrapped up in each other, too much so to be worried at all about what _Dean_ is doing across the table, but Dean is fine. Great, even. He’s calm, collected, polite, charming. He lets Christian’s occasional comments roll over his shoulders and off of his back without giving him any indication he even hears them. Christian hates it, is seething openly by the time their salad plates are cleared away and still, Dean doesn’t react.

In fact, before the entrees come out, Dean actually stands up and gives a lovely, touching toast to the almost-newlyweds, one that brings Jess to the brink of tears and has Sam jumping out of his seat to drag his brother into a fierce hug. After that and throughout dinner and desert, Dean makes appropriate jokes, drinks sparingly, and eats politely. He’s _perfect,_ he’s a vision, and Castiel’s never been prouder. 

Behind the scenes, Dean’s relying heavily on Castiel to help him through every move he’s publicly pulling off, but there’s no shame in a sub leaning on their Dom for support, and it’s support Castiel is happy to provide. The truth is, Dean’s doing a lot more on his own via sheer willpower than he likely gives himself credit for. Every so often though, Dean will turn to Castiel, meet his gaze, and something unspoken will pass between them. In return, Castiel holds Dean’s hand beneath the table. He squeezes his thigh in warning or leans into him to whisper a soft word of encouragement or reprimand, whatever he feels Dean needs at the time. 

It works. They get through the entire meal and the only fight that erupts is a good-natured one over the bill. In the end, Bobby and Ellen emerge victorious and the only threats exchanged are very clearly jokes between family with love as the driving force behind them. 

For a minute, Castiel thinks they’re actually going to pull this off. 

And then Christian drops his whiskey on the floor.

It’s not an accident, that much Castiel knows right away. The guy is _sloshed,_ so drunk that he’s unsteady on his feet and Castiel is hard-pressed to believe that he wasn’t already half in the bag during the rehearsal. Everyone is putting their coats on, discussing sleeping arrangements for tonight and plans for the next day, and Jess and Sam are saying an extended, sappy goodbye over in the corner of the restaurant’s private room they’re all currently occupying. On the other side of the table from Castiel and Dean, Christian raises his tumbler in the air before slamming it down onto the ground, glass and watered-down whiskey spraying everywhere. Several of Jess’ bridesmaids jump away, everyone collectively backing up to avoid both the mess and becoming the target of Christian’s sudden uncontainable wrath.

“No, fuck that,” Christian is slurring at Brady, who appears to be trying to talk him into simply putting his coat on and leaving (or perhaps just leaving, fuck the coat). Next to Castiel, Dean gets to his feet but keeps a hold of Castiel’s hand, watching the proceedings with interest but not jumping in head first the way he normally would. 

“Dean,” Castiel says urgently, leaning in close to Dean’s ear. “You have to trust me, please. Don’t react. No matter what happens, I think it’s best that you stay out of it. In your state—”

“See, this is what I’m talking about,” Christian interrupts loudly, coming to stand directly across from them and slamming his hand against the table, making it—and all the glassware on it—rattle and shake. Castiel moves away from Dean’s face slowly, but doesn’t drop his hand. Why should he? 

“These two fuckin’ faggots,” Christian continues, gesturing wildly, like everyone in the room _obviously_ agrees with and supports his assessment. “Flaunting their disgusting relationship all goddamn night. In a _church,_ at that.” Christian pauses to make a face and spit on the floor, and Castiel marvels at the irony, unable to stop himself from cracking a smile. “Oh, you think that’s funny, faggot?” 

At his side, Dean’s palpably about to lose it, Castiel can tell, and he’s not under any delusions—the only reason he hasn’t yet is because Castiel asked him not to. _A good boy, but not one with endless patience, nor should he be._

“Nothing I am is any of your business,” Castiel replies evenly, a lot more calmly than he feels, as Bobby takes a menacing step forward.

“Pretty clear you’ve had too much to drink, son. I think it’s time you clear out before I have to go and get ugly, you hear me?” Bobby’s tone brooks no argument, but Christian doesn’t even acknowledge him, doesn’t tear his eyes away from Castiel and Dean for _one_ fleeting second.

“You’re right,” he says, presumably to Castiel, since his eyes are still locked on his and Dean’s hands. “Don’t give a shit about you. It’s _this_ candy-ass _bitch_ giving this family and _Sam_ a bad name—” 

Except for the short time Dean was standing to give his toast, Castiel’s held onto his hand since they exited the car, and he’s remiss to drop it now for the first time, but needs must. Before anyone else can react, Castiel reaches across the table, snatches Christian by the collar, and lands a wicked right hook to the side of his face that drops the man cold.

“Talk about me all you like, but don’t come for Dean,” he says flatly, watching with his head tilted curiously to the side as Christian flops bonelessly to the floor, unconscious. 

“Holy shit,” Sam says from across the room. He’s still standing in front of Jessica, shielding her from the theoretical fight Castiel just ended in one fell swoop. Brady is cowering over by the wall, and the fact that he doesn’t even try to come to Christian’s defense is enough for Castiel not to go out of his way to engage with him.

“Damn, boy,” Bobby says with a whistle, stepping forward to peer down at where Christian is still out for the count. “Someone should probably check on him. Or call a bus.” He stares for another second before turning on his heel and taking Ellen’s arm. “Well, we’ll see you all in the morning. Sam, I expect you’ll need someone to fill a space at the altar—I’d be honored to stand up for you, boy.” 

Sam is nodding, opening his mouth to presumably thank Bobby, but they’re interrupted by Jo bursting back into the room from wherever she’s been, breathless. “Cas,” she says. “The restaurant is calling the cops.” 

Sam turns towards where Castiel and Dean are still standing uncertainly and waves them off. “Go,” he says. “I’ll talk to you both at home, go, before they get here.” 

“I’ll handle it,” Bobby assures them. “He’s right, though. Better that you’re not here when they show up.” 

Castiel nods, having full confidence the beat officers will defer to whatever account Bobby gives them regarding what happened. As Fire Chief, Bobby holds a lot of clout in this city, a lot of pull with the rank and file in every emergency services department, and he doesn’t throw it around lightly, which makes him all the more believable. It’s unlikely what Castiel did will ever have an impact beyond this room (besides for Sam), but Castiel’s not about to take any chances, not when he’s being offered an out. 

“Thank you,” he says, as he and Dean yank on their jackets.

“Don’t thank me,” Bobby says gruffly. “You’re family. And not just because of that idjit,” he adds, nodding towards Dean, who rolls his eyes. He’s been inordinately quiet and looks surprisingly calm, but as Castiel grabs his hand and yanks him towards the restaurant’s rear employee exit, Dean turns a heated expression on him that Castiel would recognize anywhere. 

They tumble through the back door to the sound of sirens already filling the air, approaching swiftly.

“Baby’s parked at the front,” Dean points out. “They’ll see us, maybe stop us.” He’s right, and Castiel looks around as the cold wind slips in under his trench, making him shiver. _Where can they go?_

Behind the restaurant, there’s the usual tiny parking lot, dumpsters, some crates for employees to sit on during smoke breaks. The restaurant is situated back-to-back with another that faces a city street on the other side and as such, there’s an alleyway in between and several more leading out in both directions. Castiel takes his pick, yanking Dean down first one and then another, lather, rinse, and repeat until it feels like they’re a safe distance away. He brings them to a stop just below a steam vent that’s exhaling warm, laundry-scented air. 

Feeling like a fugitive, Castiel turns to look at his friend, to check in with him and see how he’s really doing, now that they’re alone. But when he makes eye contact with Dean, not one word is needed. Before Castiel even really knows what’s happening, he has Dean pressed up against the cold brick of the alleyway wall, kissing him soundly. This press of lips is a revelation, so chock full of relief and desire and every other emotion Dean provokes in him regularly, and Castiel is _amped_ from what went down inside.

His knuckles hurt, his heart races, his blood hums in his veins. He’s worried and maybe a little scared, angry about the things Christian said and jazzed that he was finally about to _do_ what he promised Dean he would do. He protected him. Not just by defending his honor, but by doing the dirty work so that Dean didn’t _have_ to. Dean deserves that, and so much more, and _finally,_ Castiel did something right.

If the way Dean is kissing him back is any indication, he agrees. “So fuckin’ hot, Sir,” he mumbles as Castiel’s mouth leaves his to bite at his jaw and suck on the tender skin of his neck. “God, Cas— _Sir,_ that was so—” He growls and shivers, grabbing Castiel’s hand and pressing it tight against his groin, where he’s _rock_ hard in his pants. 

“ _Yes,_ ” Castiel murmurs back, unable to come up with anything more articulate, and truly, _yes_ really does cover it. 

“Fuck me, Sir, right here, please,” Dean pleads. “Cas, I want you so fuckin’ bad.” 

Too caught up and aroused to correct Dean’s bullshit (aside from a sharp tug to his hair), Castiel fumbles with his belt and the closures on his pants while Dean yelps in excitement and does the same. Within seconds both of their cocks are out and sliding together between their bodies, Castiel yanking Dean’s thigh up around his own as much as their ( _stupid, useless)_ pants will allow. 

“Lick,” he commands, holding up his right hand in front of Dean’s face, having to drop Dean’s thigh so he can use the other to brace against the wall. Dean complies enthusiastically, drooling spit onto Castiel’s hand in a way that leaves his mouth shiny-wet. _Gorgeous._ “You’re a work of art,” Castiel says softly, and Dean blushes, shy expression turning wrecked as Castiel closes his hand around both of them and strokes.

 _This_ is what Castiel loves most about being with Dean—watching him fall apart. Even out here, in this cold, dark, nasty alley, he’s like something that fell straight from Heaven. So bright, so wonderful, so perfect, his pretty mouth falling open as his eyes close, head dropping back against the wall with a quiet thud. 

_I love you,_ Castiel thinks, and so _badly_ wants to say. _I love you endlessly, ferociously, would lay down my life for you in an instant and not think twice._

To stop himself from blurting such things out loud, he leans forward and bites Dean’s lower lip, sucks it into his own mouth before letting it go. “Kiss me, please,” Dean pants, his eyes cracking open, hazy and lovely and _how, how could that make Castiel love him more?_

They rock together, somehow both rushed and desperate, clinging to each other and chasing a high that’s rooted in violence and discord, and also exceedingly gentle and soft. Dean comes moaning and sighing with Castiel’s tongue in his mouth and then drops to his knees, swallowing Castiel down and bringing him off with him in under a minute. 

When it’s over, the two of them stand with foreheads pressed together for entirely too long. Their pants are still unbuttoned and both of them are beginning to shiver and freeze in the unforgiving night air. Dean’s the first to look up, meeting Castiel’s gaze with one that’s so full of varying emotions, Castiel doubts he could trust himself to list them. What he says, though, is the real surprise.

“I’m _so_ fuckin’ tired,” Dean declares with a laugh, which makes Castiel laugh, which breaks whatever weird tension might have been hanging between them. 

“I’ve never agreed with you more,” Castiel says mildly. “I’m sure the cops have gone by now, and if not—we’ll cross the street and come from this direction, I doubt anyone will pay us any mind.” 

“Thank god,” Dean groans as he does up his pants, and Castiel follows suit. “I can’t wait to get in bed.” 

They begin their walk down the alleyway towards the main street, slightly apart. “I can’t wait to get in bed with _you_ ,” Castiel says softly, reaching out his hand. Dean pauses, looks from Castiel’s face to his hand with an expression Castiel can’t quite decipher, and then not only takes it but yanks Castiel in close and kisses him soundly. 

“I needed that,” is all Dean says when they part, all soft eyes and tired smile, so Castiel just nods, somewhat dazed. More to the point, though, Dean doesn’t let go of Castiel’s hand.

“Dean,” Castiel says carefully, as they continue on their way towards the street and the car. “What… what are we doing here? You and I?” 

Next to him, Dean licks his lips and shrugs. “I don’t know, Cas,” he replies, tone giving nothing away. “You got any ideas?” 

“No,” Castiel admits readily. “But, I… I’m not unhappy with it. I like…” He trails off, not wanting to say something he regrets and can’t take back. This day has been a _lot_ for both of them, and the worst thing Castiel could do right now would be to push Dean into confronting something he isn’t ready to deal with. 

But Dean just nods, and brings Castiel closer to his side by their joined hands. “Alright,” he says easily. “I’m good with that.” 

Castiel supposes that for now, he’ll have to be good with that too. Surprisingly, he is.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, what do we think?!?!
> 
> Next time, we're coming back to the major BDSM themes, don't you worry ;) who likes shibari?
> 
> Next time: Chapter 9, time for a wedding! Dean’s all tied up, sugar and slow dancing, these games are rigged, love is in the air, Cas and Dean return to the playroom in a big way.
> 
> Edit: 5/12/20: I'm super sick, likely have COVID, hence why no update this week. I'm hoping to be back on schedule next monday and I promise I will get to comments when I'm able. I really appreciate them, they are helping me through this A LOT. i'm so sorry!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Nine, time for a wedding!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with me. Apologies for being slow with comment replies and skipping last week's chapter update. In case you aren't following me on SM, my whole house has the coronavirus. We are doing OK, but still sick. Thank you all for the well wishes and understanding.
> 
> Thank you also to MalMuses and Coinofstone for the editing and polishing <3 and a Happy 100k to us!!
> 
> Chapter warnings: mentions of bigoted behavior (Christian), alcohol.  
> Sex-related tags: hand-feeding, lowkey public play, Shibari, suspension, rimming, deepthroating, gentle facefucking, nude photography, plugs, vibrators, spreader bars, restraints, hair pulling, slapping, wax play, clothespins for nipple torture, bottom Dean, coming untouched.

  
A morning like this after a night like that should _not_ feel so good. Or maybe— _fuck,_ is this how it feels to have a _real_ partner? In life, in crime (literal, this time), in— _nope, not there yet,_ Dean thinks to himself, wiggling down into the mattress and refusing to open his eyes against the tendril of sun leaking around the edge of his bedroom curtain. 

Next to him, Castiel is snoring, heavily enough that Dean can’t imagine he’s waking up anytime soon. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to Cas, but Dean isn’t ready to break this feeling, this sense of peace and relief in the morning stillness just yet. Reasonably sure he won’t be caught, Dean cracks one eye open and can’t suppress the smile that spreads across his face at what he sees. An unconscious Castiel is wrapped around Dean’s spare pillow like it’s a life preserver and Cas is floating in the middle of the ocean. Usually, that’s Dean’s job in the bed, and actually, he’s not entirely convinced Cas doesn’t think the pillow is him. Especially since, under the covers, their legs are tangled together, leaving Castiel sleeping on a weird angle that has his body taking up the majority of the bed.

Dean doesn’t even care. Fuck, he’d let Cas starfish on top of his face ( _mind out of the gutter, Dean)_ if that’s what Cas wanted, if he thought it was what Cas needed to make him _stay._ Not that Cas has even remotely needed a reason to spend the night with him, not for a long time now. Even last night, outside of a scene and absent of any good excuse other than a lack of beds, when Dean wasn’t sure what he might do (after all, he and Sam have plenty of couch and floor space), Castiel didn’t blink.

The two of them had stumbled into Dean and Sam’s shared apartment long before the rest of the groomsmen (well, whatever’s left of them, anyway) made it back from the scene of the crime. In all likelihood, they were either still stuck cleaning up the mess at the restaurant, or drinking the memory of it away at the Roadhouse. Sam isn’t Dean, though, so Dean’s betting on the former. It sucks that this is how the night before his brother’s wedding went down, but Dean only feels minutely guilty about that. After all, Sam’s the one who brought that douchebag into their lives, and Dean has _no_ regrets about the way Castiel effectively escorted him out.

And _damn,_ did Cas look good doing it. So much so that when they’d found the apartment empty, Dean still with Cas’ furious, _“I’ll smite you,”_ face burned into his brain, Dean had _plans._ He’d been all about baiting Castiel into a little scene to take advantage of their alone time before they knocked out or the other guys came home. But after stripping down to his boxers, Dean had accidentally fallen asleep on his bed ( _sweet, sweet memory foam)_ before Cas even made it back from the bathroom. 

To be fair, he _did_ have one hell of an exhausting day. 

Excuses aside, that meant that not only did Dean _not_ get laid a second time, he also hadn’t yet encountered Sam, not since Dean had left him nodding stupidly at Bobby while he and Cas fled the scene. By nature, Dean therefore _also_ hadn’t faced up to the possible consequences of what he and Cas did, all in the name of…of _freedom_ , and—and equality, and— _oh hell,_ Dean’s just wanted to watch that asshole take one to the face since the day Sam introduced them. Still, if that other stuff helps Sam to not be mad at him...

Stretching carefully so as not to disturb the sleeping (and righteously bed-headed) Castiel at his side, Dean slowly extricates his legs and swings them out over the side of the bed. There’s barely any reaction from the pillow-hogging octopus save for a quiet grumble directed down into the bedding, and watching that, Dean barely resists the urge to leave a kiss on some part of Cas’ plethora of exposed skin. He scratches an itch on his stomach instead.

After padding down the hall while stifling a yawn, Dean finds his brother easily, taking up the majority of the space in their tiny kitchen with his giant frame. Sam’s not only awake, he’s dressed and unpacking ribbon-tied boxes from an oversized plastic take-out bag marked with the logo of the bakery Dean loves from down the street. There’s also a percolating pot of coffee on the counter behind him and Dean heads straight for it. As he passes Sam, Dean shoulder checks him _hard,_ making the Bigfoot-imposter masquerading as his younger sibling grunt and stumble to the side. 

“Bitch,” Dean grunts, like everything is totally normal.

“Ow,” Sam complains, rubbing his shoulder for what feels like a goddamn eternity before cracking a smile. “Jerk.” 

Coffee pot in hand, Dean stops what he’s doing to return Sam’s semi-uncertain look with his own grin and a nod of affirmation. To his relief, Sam relaxes in kind as something unspoken passes between them and whatever tension might have been simmering breaks and dissolves. Even though he lets out a sigh of relief as he replaces the coffee pot, Dean knows in his heart he had no reason to worry. He and Sam may bicker and piss and moan and make mistakes with each other, but they’re family, and they’ve _always_ worked things out. Whatever Sam’s reasons were for wanting Christian around, Dean’s already decided it’s something he can and will get past. Sam will talk when he’s ready—or he won’t—and the two of them will be just fine. 

It’s silent in the kitchen over the next few minutes as both Winchesters move around each other easily, in practiced rhythms. It’s different for Dean than at Cas’ place or with Cas in general—this sort of familiarity is the kind that feels like _coming home,_ feels like stepping into somewhere safe and familiar after you’ve been away for months on end. It’s like sitting at a shared family table on Thanksgiving, or putting the tree up at Christmas, filled with sentimental ornaments. It’s the memory of years and years of shared experiences, both happy and sad, the way they’ve carved each other into a place that’s so much deeper than DNA. 

It’s a feeling that’s beyond words—and it’s not until they’re both settled with pastries and bagels at the crappy breakfast bar, fake-marble laminate peeling worse than Dean remembers at one corner, that Sam breaks the quiet. “I’m really sorry, Dean,” he blurts out, putting his coffee mug down a little too forcefully. 

Black liquid sloshes over the side and Sam curses under his breath, reaching for a novelty napkin from a stack that all say, “I need my bro when I marry my ho,” which has Jessica written all over it. As far as Dean’s concerned, Sam is marrying up. Jess has a _way_ better sense of humor than his brother does. 

“Ugh,” Sam says, wrinkling his nose as he reads the message for himself, which makes Dean laugh out loud and also feel a little relieved. This is _Sam._ They were never not going to work this out. “Anyway,” Sam continues, crumpling the napkin in his hand, “I really messed this up Dean, I know it.” He pauses, staring down at his plate, so Dean does the same, never being particularly good at showing his own emotions. “I know it doesn’t make it right, but the hospital is cutthroat, Dean. Back when I was a resident, there were five of us competing for _one_ attending spot the next year. Christian—” Sam groans in frustration, ruffling his own hair before he sighs and his shoulders droop. “It was more than just _family_ with him, more than obligation. He took me under his wing, he had my back. Whether you believe it or not, he’s a really good doctor, Dean.” 

Dean snorts but otherwise remains quiet, reserving airing his thoughts about _that_ out loud. Sam’s entitled to his opinion and Dean’s no doctor himself, but he’s _reasonably_ sure that being empathic and non-judgemental when it comes to others’ differences are important qualities for one to have. Unfortunately, they’re both traits Christian is sorely lacking. You can have all the knowledge in the world, all the technique and skill in the palm of your hand, but if you don’t care about _people,_ you’re missing the entire point of saving lives. And _that,_ Dean knows about firsthand. 

“So, he made you feel like you were part of the team. Had your back with your bosses. Got you that cushy, six-figure job you like so much. Pop a shoulder back in place, buy a new Lexus.” Dean knows he sounds like an ass, but it’s intentional banter between them and Sam just rolls his eyes, elbowing Dean in the ribs.

“Earlier this week I repaired a bullet wound that caused cardiac tamponade, open chest, _in_ the trauma bay, with none of my usual OR support staff or equipment. Guy’s wife is pregnant.” 

“Alright, alright, you’re a fucking hero, don’t have to tell me twice.” 

Sam laughs, but his smile fades quickly. “Dean, all that aside—it’s not an excuse. Listen, I knew Christian could be an asshole, but I thought—okay, I don’t know what I thought. Sometimes two people just don’t get along, you know? I figured you guys just didn’t mesh. I knew he could be a jerk, but honestly Dean, until last night I didn’t know he _meant_ it. Sometimes guys like that, they say stupid things.” 

Dean stops chewing, mid-bagel-bite, to give Sam an “ _are you fucking serious?”_ look he thinks Castiel would be proud of. Or maybe spank him for, either way. Sam glances over and his shoulders droop again, even as Dean tips his head to the side to make his nonverbal message more pointed. 

“I’m serious, Dean!” Sam persists. “Yeah, I hear you, it sounds stupid. But it’s the truth.” 

Dean opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, full of chewed food, to express what he thinks about that.

Sam just sighs and drops his fork, because he’s been cutting his bagel into tiny pieces like he’s eighty. _Good luck, Jessica._ “You’re right. You’re right. It’s not like I haven’t been thinking about the same shit all night, ever since you guys left the restaurant. You’re good, by the way,” Sam tacks on, hitching a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Dean’s room and presumably, Cas. “Bobby took care of it, and Brady didn’t say one damn word to argue with his version of events.” 

_Brady._ They’re circling back to that dude later, Dean makes a mental note. 

“But I just kept thinking, _how_ did I not realize he was that kind of person? That he was _serious_ when he put you down, when he made jokes about _patients…”_ Sam trails off, looking a little green and genuinely upset, his hacked-up breakfast now completely abandoned in front of him. And maybe Sam’s made mistakes, true, but Dean would forgive his little brother anything, least of all this, the majority of which mess is still _all_ on Christian, anyway. 

“Sammy,” he starts, reaching out a hand to squeeze Sam’s bicep, but Sam shakes him off.

“No, Dean,” he says firmly. “I’m not looking for your sympathy, or whatever. I fucked up. Christian is family and he’s done a lot for me, but I never should have let those things overshadow what a goddamn _asshole_ he is. Dean, I’ve always thought I was pretty smart, practical.”

“You are—”

“I wasn’t, though,” Sam interrupts, turning on his stool to more fully face Dean, and he’s angry now, very clearly at himself. “Christian showed me who he was and I didn’t believe him. Even before last night—I told you, he said things about patients, too.” Sam goes quiet for a second and then raises his eyes, looking resolved. “I’m going to make this right, Dean. I’m done with him, first of all, I don’t care what anyone else from the Campbell side says about it. _Our_ family comes first. And shit, if _they_ accept his behavior, that says it all, doesn’t it? But beyond that—I’m going to talk to our superiors about his attitude, about my concerns regarding his bigotry and how it may be affecting patients. Can’t guarantee they’ll do anything—he’s a surgical star at Central—but I’ll try, and I won’t stop trying.”

Sam looks so fervent, so desperate for Dean’s absolution, that Dean can’t help but give it to him. It’s what he’s always done for Sam, and it feels kind of right that they’re getting back to their roots on Sam’s wedding day. Anyway, so what if Sam got lost? No one’s perfect, least of all _Dean,_ and Dean has faith that his brother will do everything he can to make things right. 

“‘Course you will, Sammy,” he replies around another mouthful of bagel, reaching out again to clap Sam on the back. Dean swallows and dusts off his hands, the bagel going down a little rough, his bite too big. “So, about Brady—”

“He’s not like Christian,” Sam rushes to reply. “I mean, maybe he’s not _great,”_ Sam amends. “At least, these days. But he was never the way you’ve known him to be before I introduced him to Christian. I feel like it’s sort of my fault. He’s here,” Sam adds, nodding his head towards his own room. “Slept on my blowup mattress. Not that you should feel any obligation to hear him out, but he said he wants to apologize to you and Cas. Not that—I mean, Dean, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t forgive me, never mind some guy you barely know, but—”

“Listen,” Dean interrupts, sensing his brother is about to dissolve into an unfixable ramble. He gets up, puts his plate in the sink, and then returns to rest one hand on Sam’s shoulder and press a finger to his chest. “Shut up. I heard you, and I promise I’ll think about everything you said. Maybe. Alright, I’ll at least listen if you need to talk about it sometime in the future. But you and me? We’re good. Everything else? Gravy. This is your day, Sammy. I’m your best man, s’my job to do exactly three things. Keep a beer in your hand, Jess’ ring in my pocket, and steal the whole damn show with my good looks and the best wedding toast in history. Simple as that. You just find your way to the altar and I’ll be right behind you. Got it?” 

Like the big sappy moose he is, Sam’s eyes fill with tears as he nods, and Dean isn’t remotely surprised when he stands up to drag Dean into a hug. “Alright,” Dean says, patting San’s shoulder blade, mock-grumpy because secretly, he _loves_ every second of having his brother back, rescued from the jaws of that homophobic piece of shit for good. So much so that— _f_ _uck it, it’s Sam’s day, he deserves to hear it._ “Love you, man,” he grunts, nearly inaudible, attempting to pull away and flee before Sam can—

“Dammit, Dean,” Sam sobs, yanking him back in with a grip Dean’s not strong enough to break. “I love you, too. You’re the most important family I have, and—”

“Oh Jesus, Sam, don’t make it weird,” Dean groans, finally extricating himself from the soggy Sasquatch and high-tailing it back to his room. “Don’t follow me, we’ve hugged enough for one decade.” 

“You can’t take it back!” Sam calls after him, like the unrepentant brat he’s always been. “You love me!” 

“I do not,” Dean grumbles, slamming the bedroom door behind him. 

***

_Later_

“I have a surprise for you,” Castiel says, when Dean returns to the bedroom with both of their tuxes, still hanging in their respective garment bags. They still have the better part of two hours until the wedding, but the photographer will be here soon, and the limo to take them to the church should be arriving shortly after that. So much for Dean’s plan to convince Cas to let him blow off some steam before he has to behave. 

_Oh, well._ There’s always plan B—and Dean’s got the commitment to prove it. He’s already wearing his collar wrapped around his wrist, and under Cas’ instruction, he prepped and popped a plug in when he showered. _Dear God,_ he thinks, _please never, ever let Sam find out we used his wedding as elaborate foreplay._

“What’s that?” Dean asks Cas, doing his best to both refocus (for Sam’s sake) and sound nonchalant (for his own). 

Currently, Castiel is hanging out on the other side of Dean’s bed in just a white t-shirt and boxers, and he looks stupidly angelic haloed by the noonday sun streaming in through the window. While Dean hangs the two garment bags over the door to his closet, Cas rummages in his duffle, straightening up with a coiled length of thin white rope in his raised hand and a quirked eyebrow. 

“Oh, hell yes,” Dean agrees immediately, pulling his own t-shirt over his head without hesitation. “Boxers?” 

“Take them off,” Castiel instructs, patting the edge of the mattress next to him, and Dean nearly trips over his underwear trying to lose it while hurrying to obey. Castiel’s stern expression turns amused but fond as Dean sits down, back straight, eager to please. “I thought you might appreciate something grounding today,” he explains, pulling lengths of the soft rope through his hands absently, like he has no idea what it’s doing to Dean to have to sit still and watch. 

_Tease._

“Yes, Sir,” Dean replies eagerly, and then more calmly, “Thank you, Sir.” 

Rolling his eyes a little, Castiel steps between Dean’s legs and cups the base of his skull, gripping his hair for leverage to tip it back so that Dean’s looking up at him. “One thing I would like you to think about,” he says, “is whether you’d be open to taking some pictures later. I would love to add to the harness I’m going to tie you into for the wedding, suspend you from the ceiling and push you to the edge of your limits. And I would _love_ to take some pictures of how incredible you look while that happens. Something for us to have, to look back on. Perhaps even frame and hang in the playroom.” 

Up until that point, Dean was all-fucking-in for _whatever_ kinks Castiel wanted to break out tonight, but that last sentence has him tripping inside his own head and nearly choking on his tongue. _“Frame?”_ he sputters, holding up a hand. “Let me get this straight. You want naked pictures of me, on the walls in your house?” 

Castiel just smirks and shrugs, releasing Dean’s hair to loop the soft, satiny rope around the back of his neck, twisting each side together across the middle of Dean’s chest, dead-center over his sternum. “If you’re self-conscious, perhaps we should have some taken together. Then we can both be on the walls of my house.” 

That makes Dean’s mouth go completely dry for more than one reason, and thankfully, that seems to be Castiel’s intention because he doesn’t look for a reply. Instead, he sets about weaving a fairly simple diamond harness over Dean’s torso. It’s just as well—there aren’t many non-sexual aspects of his and Cas’ relationship Dean enjoys more than this, and he relaxes easily into Castiel’s touch and the feel of the rope sliding across his skin. 

“Comfortable?” Castiel murmurs as he nears the bottom of Dean’s abdomen, touching Dean’s hip in a nonverbal directive to stand, which Dean does without comment.

“Yes, Sir,” he replies, a little breathy, and if this were anyone other than Cas, that would be embarrassing. He and Castiel have dabbled in shibari quite a few times; suspension is a favorite for both of them, but Dean’s not yet had the opportunity to wear one of Castiel’s creations in public. They’d discussed it, mostly as a way for Cas to “be with” Dean when he’s not able to physically, but most of the time the two of them spend apart is for work. Everything else aside, wearing something like that under firefighting gear could be a safety risk and a hazard to Dean’s health. If something were to happen to Dean where seconds matter, the paramedics having to cut through his harness could be the difference between life and death. And god forbid that paramedic be _Cas—_ neither of them have to say it aloud to know that Cas wouldn’t survive that happening on his watch. 

Suffice it to say, shibari at work isn’t an option for Dean. 

Today, though, Dean can’t _wait_ to be out there with his and Cas’ little secret tied beneath his clothing. Maybe he should be more worried, more careful, after all—he’s going to be expected to do a shit ton of hugging today. But the rope is thin and his thick dress shirt and jacket should take care of hiding it. Plus, anyone who feels something will probably just assume he’s holstered and carrying discreetly, because Dean usually is. After the business with Christian last night, no one would blame him, either. Regardless, if someone says something, that’s the lie Dean’s prepared to serve cold. 

Two loops around each of Dean’s thighs and a few twists that have the rope wound snug at the base of Dean’s cock and then around his balls, and they’re done. 

“I know I said later,” Castiel starts, openly admiring his work and the way Dean’s dick has plumped up significantly from the incidental contact. “But can we circle back to the photography question early? I would love—”

“Do it,” Dean interrupts, catching Castiel’s surprised gaze head-on and with confidence. “Sir.” _Fake it ‘til you make it, right?_ He can do this. He _wants_ to do this. Dean’s unprepared for Castiel to surge forward and knock him onto his ass on the bed, to straddle his hips, grab him by the hair, and kiss him like his life depends on it. Their positioning has Dean rocking up into the sweet friction of Cas’ barely-clothed groin against his, moaning into his mouth without reservation. 

“No, Cas, come _on,”_ Dean pleads when Castiel slides backward off of him, his stupid white grandpa boxers tented fully now, but Cas doesn’t even seem to register the change. Without responding to Dean’s whines, he grabs his phone off the nightstand and swipes open the camera, centering Dean in the frame with focused intent. Dean doesn’t bother to hide his disappointment.

“You can pout,” Castiel tells him, unbothered. “You’re very sexy when you pout.” Dean rolls his eyes and Castiel looks up sharply. “Do _not_ ruin this by turning into a brat,” he warns. 

They really don’t have the time for Dean to test Castiel’s patience, so he nods and grabs the base of his dick, looking up at the camera through his eyelashes. He’s not stupid—Dean knows exactly what he looks like all tied up and splayed out, propped on one elbow over messy, unmade sheets. That’s gonna be one hell of a picture, and suddenly Dean finds himself warming to the idea of Cas maybe taking a few more with just him, after all. He’s already all-in for Cas’ other suggestion, no convincing needed. 

Without warning, there’s a loud knock at Dean’s bedroom door and Sam’s voice filters in from the other side. “The walls are _thin,_ you know,” he yells, less irritated than Dean would expect, but clearly exasperated. “You think you two could keep it in your pants for _one_ day? Just one.” 

“Sorry, Sam,” Castiel calls back. “We’re behaving, truly. Although, you were right not to come in.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure. Photographer is here, by the way, and whatever “getting ready” you two are doing isn’t something I was looking to capture for the wedding scrapbook so, if you wouldn’t mind…”

“Be right out, Sammy. You _sure_ you don’t want pictures of this, though?” Dean chimes in, unable to help himself. Both he and Cas listen while suppressing laughs as Sam shuffles away, grumbling loudly. 

“Ironic phrasing,” Castiel says, holding up his phone. “Do you want to see?”

“ _Hell_ yes,” Dean replies enthusiastically. “But I’m also kind of worried that if I look, we aren’t going to make it out that door without Sam’s soul leaving his body. So—”

“Raincheck,” Castiel agrees with a nod, reaching for the garment bag with his name on the front and tugging open the zipper. “Tonight.”

“Tonight,” Dean echoes, returning Castiel’s smile with a genuine one of his own. 

***

The next few hours are a blur for Dean. The photographer takes candid photos of all of the groomsmen in the tiny living room of Sam and Dean’s apartment, fixing bow ties and clinking beers together. It’s all supposed to look casual while being weirdly posed, and Dean hates it but doesn’t say a single word, because Sam is so damn happy. Dean’s pretty sure the photographer catches the moment Sam walks out of his bedroom looking like a groom, and Dean loses it like he’s pretty sure only the bride and mother of the groom are supposed to. 

_Well fuck it,_ Dean thinks. _He’s_ Sam’s mom, much as anyone is. _And_ his dad, _and_ his damn big brother, and for well into Sam’s teen years he was Santa-freaking-Claus, too. Dean’s pretty sure he’s entitled to a couple of sappy tears on today of all days.

After multiple checks to ensure that they have everything that needs to come to both the church and the reception venue, Sam’s entire entourage heads outside. There (to Dean’s dismay), the casual-force-posed picture-taking is repeated under the sun and in front of random trees, next to the limo, and (by Dean’s insistence) with Baby. At least when things get tedious, Dean has the reassuring comfort of the ropes hugging his body to soothe and calm him, tempering his natural tendency towards impatience and irritation. 

Plus, Cas is by his side pretty much the whole time, which helps a _not_ small amount, too. The limo ride to the church ends up being a lot more fun than the picture-taking, and also includes as much beer as Dean can drink during the twenty-minute trip (four). By the time they’re all lining up in the back of the church, Dean’s feeling pretty damn good. In fact, he’s relatively sure he could put up with nearly anything this day might throw at him, all in the name of being the best damn Best Man Sam could ask for.

Even when Sam heads off down the aisle on Ellen’s arm and the doors to the main church close behind him so that the girls can file in and everyone can pair up, Dean manages to hold it together. _No man tears,_ not with such a giant audience waiting to judge him _._ Even Dean has his limits. 

Right before the music starts and the wedding coordinator motions for him and Jo to start the long walk towards the altar, Dean glances over his shoulder to send a tipsy wink Cas’ way. Cas must be feeling pretty good too, because he doesn’t even admonish or scold Dean, just smiles softly and shakes his head before mouthing, “Behave.” 

Dean does, save for a few devilish winks at elderly ladies in pews, and they all make it to the altar unscathed.

The ceremony is beautiful. Flowers everywhere, lots of that white, gauzy shit draped over the seats and the altar. Dean takes it all in from Sam’s side, deciding that Jess did a bang-up job on the place. The whole church stands when “Here Comes the Bride” plays and Jess enters, and Dean has a handkerchief at the ready to hand off to the emotional groom. Hundreds of Sam and Jess’ family and friends line the aisle, and the two of them only have eyes for each other. As Dean watches his baby brother tear up watching his almost-wife walk towards him, it’s a much more sobering moment than he thought it would be. 

Sam is _grown,_ and somehow, that’s _startling._ It’s not as if Dean didn’t know that already, he’s known it for years. And yet, it’s never been demonstrated—never been shoved in his face— _quite_ so clearly as this. Jess, with her starry-eyes and bright smile that’s for Sam only— _she_ is Sam’s future, not Dean. While he and Sam will always be family, always be irreplaceable in each other’s lives, they aren’t the _only_ thing each of them has any longer. Sam has Jess and Dean—Dean’s alone.

 _Except no_. No he isn’t, Dean realizes, feeling just the tips of Cas’ fingers nudging at the edge of his hand. It’s a gentle, careful reassurance, designed to make Dean feel safe and supported but not to steal the show. Cas _knows_ him, likely knows exactly what he’s feeling right now, and he cares enough to reach out. And while Dean can’t bring himself to look away from his brother exchanging his vows, he does have the strangest thought go through his mind, one that he can’t quite shake loose. It’s the idea that—if he _did_ turn and look at Cas—he might find him looking back with the same expression Jess is wearing while smiling up at Sam, right now. 

The thought scares and excites him so much in equal measures that Dean can’t bring himself to look Castiel’s way at _all._ At least, not until Sam and Jess have been pronounced “man and wife” and the whole party has paraded back down the center aisle of the church and off to one of the side rooms so that everyone in the cheap seats can exit and form their rice-throwing lines outside. 

Inside the cramped little room, Dean gets about four seconds with Sam before his newly-hitched self is swept away by other members of the bridal party, a whirl of back-slapping and face-kissing and cheering before Sam and Jess manage to break away and steal a moment for themselves in a far corner. As Dean watches them cup each others’ cheeks with a wistful little smile on his face, an unmistakable presence appears at his side, accompanying giant hand coming to rest at the small of his back. 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, finally looking over to find Castiel looking back exactly the way he always stares at Dean, and somehow, that’s even more confusing. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies back, holding Dean’s gaze from just a few inches too close for two (otherwise) platonic (fuck) buddies, and it’s then Dean realizes that maybe Cas has been looking at him this way all along. 

“Alright, everybody line up! Opposite order as the procession, please. Bride and groom, you’ll be bringing up the rear,” the wedding planner calls from where she’s popped her head into the too-small space. Dean can’t help thinking that if Christian was here, that remark would have definitely been turned into a dig at him and Cas, and thank _fuck_ he isn’t. 

Their exit from the church is cliche and cute, rice raining down over all of their heads while the crowd cheers and the girls yell and try in vain to cover their carefully-styled hair. With the procession reversed, Dean and Jo are following Cas and April to the limo, and _Cas_ is the one who turns to wink over his shoulder this time. He’s all bright smiles and perfect, rice-strewn hair to match his gorgeous tux, everything Dean ever wanted all wrapped up in a fancy, bow-topped package for today. 

Dean’s chest aches. 

There are more pictures. _Lots_ more pictures at multiple locations, and no alcohol to make the taking of them more tolerable. Dean grins and bears it, because it’s for _Sam,_ but even in the limo he’s not having any fun. The beer and champagne have long-since run out, and Cas gets stuck several seats away from him no matter how Dean tries to position them otherwise each time they pile out and back in. By the time the bridal party makes it to the reception venue, Dean’s harness isn’t doing jack shit for his mood and he’s ornery enough to consider making amends with Christian in exchange for a double whiskey on the rocks. 

Things get better once Bobby makes that wish come true for both of them, and Dean’s never been more grateful for his and Sam’s surrogate father (which is saying a lot, considering). Jess and Sam’s reception is at a swanky hotel downtown, and the ballroom the party is set up in is right off of the hotel lobby. Just inside the open door to the room, the lights are dim, the disco ball is spinning and the DJ is talking, getting ready to announce the wedding party’s entrance. Furtively, Bobby and Dean gulp their drinks in a far corner of the hallway and then ditch their empty glasses in a decorative ficus. 

Looking significantly happier, Bobby wipes his mouth and claps Dean on the shoulder before taking his place in line behind Brady and in front of Cas. Ahead of them, Alfie and one of Jess’ friends are already dancing their way into the ballroom to the sounds of “Marry You” by Bruno Mars. Dean rolls his eyes, _talk about cliché._

The two fingers of whiskey hit his bloodstream in a rush, mellowing Dean out more and more the closer he gets to the door. The alcohol also relaxes his limbs and puts him a lot less on edge, which is _maybe_ why he misses the covert glances exchanged between Jo and April over Castiel’s shoulder. By the time Cas and April are up and the DJ is calling their names, Dean’s feeling pretty damn good again, swaying his hips to the music and bopping his head along to the beat. Jo is hanging on his arm, more or less doing the same at his side, until suddenly, she’s _not._

As Dean stands there and gapes, she friggin’ _bolts,_ rushing forward to hip-check Cas aside and take April by the arm. Even _more_ surprising, April laughs openly and lets herself be swept out onto the floor, where she and Jo break it down like the two scheming idiots they are. 

To his credit, the DJ pivots easily, announcing the correction with humor and grace, and the girls wave their bouquets and lean into each other affectionately as they skip happily off-stage. Dean’s so busy being confused and then watching the show they put on, he doesn’t even realize he’s been set up until it’s too late to do anything about it. And then there’s Cas, looking as surprised as he feels but still offering his arm up and— _god damn it, and now he’s the girl, too. Fuckin’ Jo._ Dean’s gonna put a laxative in her martini. 

_Oh, hell._

With a shake of his head and a resigned sigh, Dean takes Castiel’s arm and lets himself be led out onto the dance floor. He leans into the buzz he has going, biting his lip and shaking his ass to the beat, like the rhythmless white boy he knows he is. 

But that isn’t good enough for Cas, who gets a wild hair up his ass and takes Dean by the hand, sending Dean whirling and twirling under his own fucking arm, until suddenly he’s falling—and humiliatingly, screeching—backward. Cas catches him in a dip, grinning down at Dean’s answering scowl with poorly-concealed smug satisfaction. 

“Dick,” Dean grumbles, and that only makes Castiel’s smile widen as he puts Dean gently back on his feet. 

“Kiss!” Someone yells out from the crowd, and the rest of them laugh while Dean jumps back hastily, realizing abruptly that he’s standing _way_ too close to Castiel. 

“Whose wedding is this?” Sam calls out from where he and Jess are lingering in the doorway, just as the Bruno Mars song is coming to an end. It’s clearly good-natured, but as an apology, Dean darts back across the dance floor to grab his brother’s face and lay a sloppy kiss on his cheek. He waves apologetically to the crowd as he skates away again, finding his way back to where the bridal party is lining the edge of the dance floor and sliding in between Jo and Cas. 

“That was _so_ not cool,” he mutters to Jo as the room explodes around them, everyone cheering and clapping for “the new Mr. and Mrs. Winchester!” 

Jo gestures to her ear and smirks. “Sorry, can’t hear you!” 

While his friends are definitely assholes, Dean’s seething over their plotting against him lasts only until the end of Sam and Jess’ first dance. The adorable sappiness of his brother’s pure, palpable joy succeeds in melting the ice cube Dean assumes he has in place of a heart enough that he’s ready to drink and party again. 

Several whiskies, what feels like a thousand hugs, dinner, and a round of semi-memorable toasts later, the reception is in full swing, and Dean finally feels like he can relax. While most of the guests are out jumping around and grinding on the dance floor, Dean’s lurking by the bar, stealing a few quiet moments with just him, and Mr. Macallan. The whiskey is smooth and hot in his throat, and Dean savors every drop, so much so that he doesn’t notice the figure sidling up beside him until it’s too late to escape. 

“Fancy meeting you here, Dean-o.” Meg’s sultry voice cuts into Dean’s peaceful reverie, making him grimace. “Oh, relax,” she says, presumably when she notices his eyes start to roll. “I’m not your enemy, you know.”

“Why are you even here?” Dean doesn’t make eye contact, just signals the bartender for a refill and drinks half of it way faster than a whiskey of that caliber deserves. 

“I transferred to Jess’ floor at Central earlier this year,” Meg explains and Dean nods, already sick of the small talk, but she doesn’t leave. “We’re friends. Seriously, relax, dewdrop. I just came to say hello. Figured Cas would be with you, but I don’t see him.”

“He’s around.”

“Hmm,” Meg hums noncommittally, sipping from her own drink and leaving a bright red lipstick smear on the rim. It twists Dean’s stomach a little to see, makes him wonder irrationally and against his will if she ever left marks like that on Cas. _Damn,_ but he’s becoming a possessive son of a bitch, not that he has any right to it. “Anyway, like I said, no need for the cold shoulder,” Meg continues, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “You know, you and me? We have a lot in common, not the least of which is wanting the best for our boy.” 

“Yea, well,” Dean replies, dropping his tumbler onto the bar just a _little_ harder than necessary and scanning the crowd for the “boy” in question. “Cas isn’t my boy or yours. He isn’t anybody’s anything, not like that. Guess that’s another thing you and I have in common—learning that reality the hard way.” Dean’s eyes alight on him finally, out on the dance floor with Charlie, being cajoled into learning the robot. Cas is stiff, awkward, and way too serious as he goes through the stilted motions Charlie demonstrates for him to copy. There’s no sign of the dapper dancer who flung Dean around so easily earlier— _this_ is a lot more like the Cas Dean recognizes. Teaching Cas the robot is a little on the nose for his taste, but Charlie and the other girls gathered around him are laughing uproariously. 

In Dean’s peripheral vision, Meg shifts so that her elbow is on the bar and she’s facing him, smirking, waving her hand like she’s reading his aura. “I know you’re all… uptight or whatever with your little feelings, but the pissy anger you’re throwing my way is misplaced. That’s all I’m saying. Between the two of us, I’m not the danger to Clarence. You are.” 

That gets Dean’s attention, and he snaps his gaze back to Meg, incredulous, touching a finger to his ear. “Gonna have to run that one by me again, because I _know_ you didn’t just imply I would ever intentionally hurt Cas.” 

Meg just wiggles a little against the bar, her smile never faltering as she scrutinizes Dean’s face. “You’re right, I didn’t. I _implied_ that you _could_ hurt him. Never said anything about intention. And if you’re really as oblivious as you’re playing right now, then I was right to say so. Honestly, you two dumbasses can’t see what’s right in front of your adorable little noses.” As if to make a point, she reaches out and boops Dean on his, making him scrunch his face reflexively in response.

“Hey,” he protests.

With a shrug, Meg just grabs her drink and saunters off. “If you two manage to pull your heads out of your asses and stick with each other for the long haul, feel free to call me up when things get boring. I think the three of us would have a magical time together.” 

Normally, Dean would respond with something snarky, but even _his_ repertoire is empty for a snappy comeback to the man he’s in love with’s ex propositioning them both for a threesome. Probably for the best—some things are better just left alone. Shaking himself off, Dean returns to his drink and finishes it up. 

Having been at the bar for the better part of an hour, Dean’s pleasantly drunk once more, and his interaction with Meg (plus the way the stool he’s been occupying shifts the plug in his ass with every tiny movement) has him on edge. It’s not as if Meg _implied_ anything Dean wasn’t already beginning to suspect regarding Cas, but still—it’s way more unsettling hearing it from a third party. A third party who—arguably—knows Castiel better than most other people in the world and has no reason to lie, much as it may pain Dean to admit it (and he never will out loud). 

Still conflicted, Dean gets to his feet and starts wobbling across the room towards the dance floor. On his way, he passes the dessert table and does a double-take because the spread is a wet-friggin’-dream. Jess and Sam cut the cake a bit ago, so there are copious slices of richly frosted marble laid out, but there are also pie squares, a chocolate fountain, and candy in bowls with scoops. Dean’s liquored up brain suddenly can’t decide what he wants more, Cas or sugar. _Sugar with Cas,_ his brain decides helpfully and Dean pivots back in his original direction, vowing to grab his friend and drag him back to plunder the table. 

But as he approaches the dance floor, the current upbeat song ends and a slow one begins. The crowd around Castiel looks visibly bummed, most of them dispersing, breaking off to head back to their tables for drinks and a rest. By the time Dean reaches his friends’ sides, Charlie and Cas are slow dancing like two Catholic school kids at a middle school social. Rocking awkwardly two feet apart, afraid the nuns are going to smack them with rulers while insisting they “leave room for the Holy Spirit!” 

As soon as Charlie catches Dean’s eye, she grins and drops her hands from where they’re resting on Castiel’s shoulders. “Don’t mind me,” she squeaks, stepping away and melting into the crowd before Dean can so much as get a word in edgewise. 

“Hello to you too, Charlie,” he says to the empty space Charlie vacated and Castiel chuckles, stepping into it and dragging Dean in close. Without hesitation, his right hand goes to the small of Dean’s back, left hand confidently interlacing with Dean’s right, very sexy, very _not_ Catholic-middle-school-dance. Uncaring of who’s watching, Dean wraps an arm around Castiel’s neck and allows their torsos to be pressed together, all the way down to their groins. Dean’s drunk, but not _so_ drunk he doesn’t realize how intimate, how _publicly intimate_ this is. 

And yet tonight, Dean’s feeling brave, so he lets whatever is happening happen, and just settles in to enjoy the ride. The song that’s playing is ultra sappy and romantic, standard wedding fare really, and Dean can’t take his eyes off of Castiel. They sway together, soft and slow, eyes locked and foreheads nearly touching. Cas’ pupils are a little dilated, and Dean wonders if it’s from alcohol or something else. 

“You look good tonight,” Dean says softly, even though he’s already said it at least ten times since Castiel first put his tux on back in Dean’s room. And even though he’s heard it just as many times, Castiel’s eyes still crinkle at the corners and he smiles wide and gummy like the fact that Dean finds him hot is brand new information. 

As they sway, Castiel’s hand releases Dean’s to come up and cup the side of his face, so Dean drops his newly freed one to Cas’ waist. He can’t help it, blame it on the alcohol or whatever else, but Dean’s eyes slip shut and he leans into Cas’ touch easily, not missing the way Cas’ breath hitches in response.

“Dean, I’ve been meaning to—” Castiel starts, but he’s cut off by the music fading out and the DJ’s voice booming over their heads, announcing that it’s time for the bouquet and garter toss. All of the single women are ordered to the dance floor first, so reluctantly, Dean forces himself to pull away from Cas and clear off to the edge to make room. 

When Jess makes her way to the middle of the floor with her bouquet in one hand and half of her dress bunched up in the other, she looks straight at Dean and gives him a wink. That’s kind of odd, in his opinion, but then again, Jess looks drunker than he feels, so Dean doesn’t think too much of it. He and Cas are off to the side, nowhere near the gaggle of pretty bridesmaids and guests in evening gowns, which is why Dean couldn’t possibly have foreseen what happens next.

“ _Oof,”_ Dean grunts, stumbling backwards and ultimately plopping down onto his ass as Jess’ bouquet hits him square in the stomach. _Fuck,_ those things are heavier than they look. Blinking and confused, Dean holds out the bouquet for someone to take and return to Jess for a redo, but she’s jumping around and cheering and no one will _take the fucking flowers_ from his hands. 

“I think you were set up again,” Castiel stage-whispers conspiratorially from behind his hand as Dean struggles to his feet. That suggestion makes Dean look around wildly, taking stock of his friends and their reactions to this utter _bullshit_. Sam’s at Jessica’s side now, grinning widely, and when Dean’s eyes find Jo, all she does is shrug and raise her eyebrows innocently. Even Ellen has her face buried in Bobby’s bicep, shoulders shaking with laughter, and Bobby looks like the cat with a mouse, red-faced and straining trying to hold his own laughter in. 

_Fuck all of them,_ Dean fumes, but he’s a gentleman, so he raises the bouquet a bit sheepishly and waves it in the air to a chorus of approving cheers from the rest of the crowd. 

“Hmm,” is all Castiel says, stroking his chin. “Let’s test this theory.” 

“No, Cas, don’t—” That’s all Dean gets out before the “single men” are moving onto the dance floor by order of the DJ, although most of them look a lot less excited than they had been a few minutes prior. Dean can’t blame them, though secretly he kind of does, because who _wouldn’t_ want a piece of his fine ass? 

It’s all irrelevant anyway, because despite the fact that Castiel stands _far_ on the outskirts of the crowd, Jess’ garter gets shot directly his way and he catches it easily, Sam barely even pretending to act surprised when he does. True to form, Castiel just stands there awkwardly, looking down at the frilly, satiny thing in surprise, like he doesn’t quite understand.

“Ha, ha,” Dean says loudly, mockingly, waving the bouquet around and rolling his eyes. “Oooh, you really got us now. Guess we have to get married. Tou-fuckin’-ché, assholes.” 

“You don’t have to marry him,” Charlie interjects, coming up behind Dean from out of nowhere and escorting him forward onto the dance floor where a chair has materialized. She plucks the garter from Castiel’s hand as they pass and presses it into Dean’s. “You just have to let him take this off of you. With his teeth,” she adds pointedly, this time to Castiel. 

“Do it, do it, do it!” Jess cheers excitedly, jumping up and down while holding onto Sam’s hand, which, because of his height yanks him all kinds of around haphazardly. Like the dutiful new husband he is, Sam doesn’t complain at all, just raises his eyebrows at Dean and gestures to his bride like, _better do what she says, it’s her day._

With a long-suffering sigh, Dean looks down at the garter and then up at Cas, who’s still just standing there, wide-eyed and nervous. It would appear that he’s only just now realizing what he’s gotten himself into by “testing his theory.” _Dumbass._

Still, what the bride wants, the bride gets. Who is Dean to deny his new sister-in-law her entertainment? Time to put on a show. With new resolve (and without looking at Cas), Dean climbs up to stand on his chair and waves his arms, hyping up the crowd before jumping back down (nearly falling over) and tugging on the garter, all the way up to mid-thigh. The room goes wild. 

When Dean sits, the crowd only gets louder as Cas follows him down, getting on his knees and shuffling his way forward like that’s a _thing_ Castiel’s ever done before in his life. _If only they knew._ When he’s _just_ between Dean’s knees, Cas slowly and pointedly puts both of his arms behind his back and wraps one hand around his own wrist to hold them there. 

Whatever the crowd sees, whatever they’re screaming, Dean barely notices, hardly cares, because his entire world grinds to a halt. All _he_ can see is the way Cas’ eyes lock onto his, all he can _feel_ is the hot puff of air from Cas’ mouth on his inner thigh through the fabric of his dress pants. Cas’ teeth barely graze him as they catch the garter, but Castiel never looks away, not for a second. By the time the garter is slipping down over his shoe, Dean’s gravely worried about his ability to stand up without humiliating himself, and wondering where that whiskey dick that he usually resents so much is. 

Thankfully, as soon as the garter is off and Cas is standing up, twirling the thing around on his finger in smug success, the DJ switches gears and throws some dance music back on. As everyone crowds back onto the dance floor, Dean takes his chair and lets Castiel escort him off the makeshift stage, holding it strategically over his crotch while he silently wills his dick to deflate. 

“I believe our friends are trying to send us a message,” Castiel says into Dean’s ear, as Dean drops the chair at the first table they come to. Wayward cock sufficiently settled, he lets Castiel slip an arm around his waist, reciprocating in kind as they wander away from the mob scene now dancing around to “Jump!” 

Usually, this would be the part where Dean would deflect, make up some reason why their friends are idiots and no one should listen to them ever, about anything. But tonight, taking in the way Castiel is looking up at him, so soft and hopeful, Dean can’t do it. _God,_ this is a risk, this is so much harder than fighting and fucking Cas for fun and in the name of “stress relief” could _ever_ be. In fact, it’s harder than _anything_ Dean’s ever done in his life not to throw up walls, not to try and protect himself from what _feels_ like inevitable rejection and heartache.

“Yea,” he manages finally, dry-mouthed and anxious, the weight of his lack of denial sitting heavy on his shoulders. Despite his fear and the pounding of his heart in his chest, Dean doesn’t look away. “Guess so.” 

And then he and Cas are kissing, hands on faces, sloppy because they’ve both had more than their fair share of alcohol, but hot and delicious all the same. “What—” Castiel starts but Dean cuts him off with a tongue in his mouth, a nip to his top lip, and Castiel growls a little in the back of his throat. When Dean pulls away, Castiel looks positively predatory. 

“When does this party end?” he asks, his eyes dark and his lips slick and kiss-bitten and _right the fuck now,_ if Dean has anything to say about it. 

He starts to reply with exactly that but groans and reels himself in at the very last second. This is his little brother’s _wedding._ Dean is _not_ going to bounce early just to get laid. Even if he does have to repeat that phrase in his head two more times before it sinks in. Once he’s got a handle on himself, Dean steps forward, grabbing Castiel by the hips and sighing. “Soon,” he replies, and then actually looks at his watch. “Half hour, tops. They’re staying at the hotel by the airport so they don't have to look anyone in the eye tomorrow morning. Are you going to fuck me? When we get home?” 

“I’m going to do unspeakable things to you,” Castiel replies softly, _way_ too gentle for the absolute promise those words hold, and _damn it,_ Dean’s pants are tight again. He _wants_ to take Castiel into a dark corner right now and investigate this—whatever they fuck they’re doing—further, but there are giggling girls nearby, whispering and definitely pointing in their direction. Dean sighs and throws up a middle finger at Jo and Charlie and probably fuckin’ April— _he doesn’t even_ know _April—_ looping his arm through Castiel’s and dragging him away to the only adequate (available) replacement for sex.

Sugar. 

That turns out to be somewhat of a mistake, since watching Castiel lick chocolate off of his dexterous fingers does nothing to settle Dean’s once-again-dire pants situation. Cas notices— _because of course, he notices—_ and grins, something feral and knowing, and he puts on a real show of finishing cleaning off his index finger. Dean keens, but Castiel makes it up to him, finding a piece of cake and hand-feeding it to Dean with those same fingers, letting each one linger in his mouth so Dean can tongue around it. 

“Been awhile since we did that,” Dean observes with his mouth still full, all faux-casual as Castiel wipes his wet fingers off on a napkin.

“Mmm,” he agrees. “We should rectify that tomorrow morning. Breakfast in bed, I’ll feed it to you and then ride your cock. Perhaps I’ll feed it to you while riding your cock.” 

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean swears, crossing one leg over the other and glancing around to see if anyone heard that.

Castiel just shrugs, undoing his work with the napkin by sticking another strawberry under the spill of the chocolate fountain and failing to keep his fingers out of the way. “Most everyone here is certainly asking for it. They’re the ones who keep shoving us together, rigged wedding games and all. If they happen to overhear the fruits of their labor, that is exclusively on them.” 

Dean just blinks back at him.

“Besides,” Castiel continues, eating the strawberry himself and sorely disappointing Dean, “That was meant to be motivation. A theoretical reward. You only get it if you behave tonight, and survive everything I have to throw at you.” 

“Fuck. I’m going to go see if Sam and Jess’ ride is here,” Dean announces, turning on his heel and pressing a hand to his crotch as he tries to walk nonchalantly away. The low laugh that follows him suggests he is not very successful, and Dean doesn’t care at all. 

***

The door to Sam and Jess’ limo is barely closed behind the poofy train of Jess’ giant dress when Castiel’s still-sticky fingers are twisting into Dean’s and he’s high-tailing it in the opposite direction, yanking Dean along behind.

“Wait,” Dean protests. “Shouldn’t we say goodnight to everyone? Offer to help clean up or whatever? I got no idea how this fancy shit works, the last wedding I went to was in a fire hall and everyone was supposed to bring their own chairs.” 

Castiel snorts but doesn’t so much as slow down or glance at Dean over his shoulder. “I said our goodbyes while you were speaking to Sam and our bags are already in the car. Trust me, Dean, no one is expecting us back.”

While the concept of Castiel saying “their” goodbyes to all of his friends and family sinks slowly into Dean’s head, Castiel leads them directly to a waiting black sedan. It’s idling by the curb with a driver already seated at the wheel. “No regrets on skipping out on the hotel stay?” Dean asks, as they slide into the back seat. “This place is pretty swanky.” 

After giving the driver his address, Castiel turns and raises an eyebrow at Dean. “The hotel doesn’t have heavy-duty suspension hooks driven into the ceiling joists,” he remarks. In front of them, the driver does a double-take into the rearview mirror that has Dean thanking God it’s too dark for the guy to make out the blush that’s surely staining his face.

Despite the sexual tension that has been following him and Castiel everywhere they went (especially the desert table) all damn night, the ride home in the car is surprisingly low key. Both of them are exhausted, spending the majority of the ride slumped back in their seats and staring aimlessly out the window. Castiel’s hand finds Dean’s in the middle of the seat, though, tracing patterns over Dean’s palm with his thumb before working open the button of his cuff and absently fingering the collar still wrapped around his wrist. 

As they pull onto the street where Castiel’s apartment building sits, they both happen to tear their eyes away from their respective windows at the same time. The look Castiel gives Dean is heated, purposeful, and Dean feels wide awake in an instant. As Dean gathers their things, Castiel tips the driver with barely a glance in the guy’s direction or down at his wallet. Hopefully he doesn’t regret that later.

Inside, Castiel nods a greeting to his doorman as he sweeps Dean through the lobby and into the waiting elevator (seriously, Dean’s gotta ask Cas about his money situation, because this place is bananas. His own building barely has a damn lock on the front door). It’s quiet on the ride up, but Castiel stands _right_ at Dean’s side, all up in his personal space despite the otherwise emptiness of the elevator. Dean can tell just by his energy, the way he holds himself, that he’s shifting into hardcore Dom-mode—not that Castiel ever really leaves it. Dean snorts a little at that thought and Castiel looks at him sideways, eyes narrowing like he can read Dean’s mind. _Fuck, that’s hot._

“When we get inside the apartment,” Castiel starts, and it comes out slow and deliberate, enough to prick the hair on the back of Dean’s neck up to full attention. Castiel’s nose dropping to his shoulder doesn’t help, either. “You’re going to head directly to the bathroom. Remove the plug, clean up, but don’t take off your harness. Obviously,” he adds as an afterthought, walking off the elevator abruptly and leaving Dean to trail behind him with the bags. 

Dean eyes Castiel suspiciously once he’s dumped their things on the living room floor, but Castiel just folds his arms across his chest and raises an eyebrow. “Was something I said unclear?” 

“No, Sir,” Dean replies quickly, shaking his head before slipping into the bathroom and locking the door behind him because _some_ things are just not sexy to walk in on, no matter how into someone you might be. He does as he was instructed, leaving his tux pieces folded a bit haphazardly on the sink; they’ll be sent for dry cleaning, no need to be precious there. 

Clearly, Castiel wanted him out of the way so he could set something up, but Dean’s _not_ prepared to walk out of the bathroom to the scene that’s awaiting him. In fact, he stops dead in the middle of the doorway, forgetting completely that he should be kneeling and keeping his eyes down. No, Dean’s definitely staring, but _who_ could blame him?

On top of the bed, Castiel’s standing barefoot on his toes, suit jacket gone and long dress sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His bowtie is also missing, and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone, but his waistcoat’s still there, accentuating his broad chest and trim hips. No _way_ is this look not extremely intentional—it’s pushing nearly every button Dean has that Castiel knows about in the clothing department—and if Cas is planning to tease him looking like _that,_ Dean might as well give up now, because he’s not going to last very long. 

“Kneel,” Castiel says, otherwise not acknowledging Dean at all as he reaches up to clip an already-threaded pulley to one of the ceiling hooks. Dean obliges, but can’t help noticing the way Cas’ shirt pulls out slightly from where it’s tucked into his pants, watching with interest as it separates between two of the buttons. _Why_ that particular tease is so hot, Dean will never know, but here he is, drooling over the _barest_ flash of tummy skin. 

When Cas finally drops from the bed to the ground, he goes straight into a crouch, reaching out to tip Dean’s chin up with his index finger in one smooth motion. Dean knows _he’s_ still tipsy, and if he tried that, he’d be down for the count. But he’s got no idea how much Cas actually drank tonight, maybe he’s basically sober. It’s not impossible, but Dean is pretty suspicious that Cas’ dismount was specifically curated to keep him from falling on his ass and breaking the tension, the _tone_ he’s gone out of his way to set in the room. While Dean is definitely a brat, those aren’t the kind of buttons he cares to press when it comes to Cas, so he leaves well enough alone and blinks up at his Dom innocently.

From this close, Cas smells _good_ —not that too-fresh clean that comes with just hopping out of the shower, but a manly, musky scent that mixes with the expensive material of the suit he’s wearing and into his cologne, intoxicating Dean. It’s all Dean can do not to lean into it, to bury his face in between Cas’ spread legs and mouth there until he can feel him filling out. With any luck, that’s on Cas’ to-do list, because Dean’s mouth is watering at the mere thought. 

“Safeword?” Castiel prompts gently, the crinkles around his eyes deepening as he looks down at Dean, gaze soft and hard at the same time, like he’s looking right through him, straight down to his soul.

 _Holy shit, he’s really drunk._

“Impala,” Dean replies, his voice cracking a little. Embarrassed, he flushes, tries to duck his face away, but Castiel is quicker—grabbing Dean’s chin and forcing him to maintain eye contact. 

“Don’t look away from me,” he commands.

“Yes, Sir,” Dean replies, keeping his voice soft and quiet, because he knows Cas loves when he’s compliant and submissive, but also so that it doesn’t crack again. _A man can only take so much._

“And your safeword, are you using it?”

“No, Sir.”

Castiel nods. “I’m not going to gag you. I want you to let me hear every pretty noise you feel compelled to make tonight.” Castiel starts to move and then thinks better of it, turning back to look down his nose at Dean. _“Noises,”_ he clarifies, because he knows Dean all too well. “Not words. No back-talk, no questions, no talking at all unless you’re feeling unsafe. As usual, you may say ‘yellow’ or ‘red,’ if that’s the case, and I will respond accordingly. Otherwise, _noises_ only. Do you understand?” 

The still-tipsy part of Dean’s brain just can’t help itself. “Mmhmm,” Dean hums, barely suppressing a smirk as he stares wide-eyed back at Cas. After all, he’s only following instructions. Before he can so much as blink, Dean’s cheek is smarting and he’s looking at the floor instead of Cas. The _smack_ of Cas’ hand making contact with his face sends a thrill through Dean’s body, he’s _so_ fucking ready, _so_ desperate for this. His hands clench behind him as he breathes, _in and out,_ closing his eyes and allowing himself a second to relish the sting of his skin before Cas is grabbing his hair and yanking his head back.

“Brat,” Castiel growls. “We don’t mess around with safety. Answer my question immediately or I’ll stop the scene right now.” 

“I understand, Sir,” Dean gasps. Cas’ grip on his hair is more ferocious than usual, and when he releases it, he does so with a little jerk that has Dean toppling over from his knees onto his hip. “I’m sorry, Sir.” He’s not sorry, and Castiel knows it, judging by the roll of his eyes he gives in return as he stands and beckons for Dean to do the same. 

“Up. Feet slightly apart, arms straight out, like you’re reaching for the walls.” As Castiel saunters over to the far armoire, the one that holds all of his bondage supplies, Dean complies with his instructions. While he watches Castiel rooting casually around in the top drawer, he regrets doing it so quickly, realization dawning that holding his arms out in this way is not necessary positioning for shibari, it’s punishment for his sass.

When Castiel finally turns around, several lengths of rope in hand, he looks smug. As he returns to Dean’s side, he quirks an eyebrow. “Comfortable?” he asks. Dean stays silent, recognizing _that_ trap for what it is, but in the quiet, the noise his teeth makes when he clamps them shut is _loud,_ and Castiel’s smile widens. “Alright,” Cas relents. “As fun as you’re making this for me, it’s not exactly what I had planned. You can rest your arms and lay down on the bed. Ass at the very edge, please.” 

This time when Dean does what he’s told, Castiel watches, making his own pleased little noises as Dean splays himself out without an ounce of shame. As soon as he’s down, Cas is between his legs, hands all over Dean’s body, threading rope this way and that. He’s soft, gentle, pressing kisses between the twists, scraping fingers down over Dean’s side, tying ropes off to the loops already hanging from one end of the pulley. 

He disappears once, only to return with something that makes a _thump_ and a _clank_ when he sets it down on the floor. Unable to look and see what it is, Dean’s heart races, his nerves over what might be coming next preventing him from fully relaxing and enjoying the remainder of Castiel’s hands working to tie him up. 

“This is new,” Castiel says suddenly, startling Dean out of his nervous daydream, making his eyelids pop open and his pupils focus on Castiel, towering over him in the now-dim light. He’s holding a spreader bar, one with four limb restraints attached, and Dean’s already hard but seeing his Dom with _that_ in hand spikes his arousal significantly. 

It’s difficult for Dean to ask plainly for what he wants and needs, it always has been. And even though he’s gotten better about it, feels more at ease around Castiel now than he ever has, Dean still has his hangups. This kind of bondage is something he’s wanted Castiel to put him in for a _long_ time, but _asking_ to be made powerless and vulnerable? It’s just not something Dean’s been able to give voice to. Maybe that’s silly, considering all the things he and Cas have already done together and the fact that Cas has _never_ judged him, but that’s just the way it is. 

Now, though, all Dean can do is whine and nod as his dick sells him out completely by drooling precum all over his stomach. After pressing a kiss to the inside of Dean’s knee, Castiel is all too quick to oblige. Pretty soon, Cas has fastened the end set of restraints around Dean’s thighs, setting the bar to press into the skin just above his knees, and then he’s on to securing the cuffs near the middle to each of Dean’s wrists. The end result is Dean on his back, legs up in the air, hands caught uselessly somewhere in between. 

This would be a sadistic as hell position if Castiel didn’t help Dean out by securing each of his ankles to the suspension system he’s already rigged, taking the burden off of Dean to hold himself up. It’s still not entirely _comfortable,_ but it’s better.

“We’re not trying to dislocate your shoulders,” Castiel explains, and despite the fact that Dean’s slipping quickly into subspace, _that_ he understands. Without the ankle support, he’d have to either use his thigh muscles to hold his legs up or strain his shoulder joints trying to give them a break. This way, he’s restrained, he’s exposed, he’s at Cas’ mercy, but the carefully tied ropes are doing all the hard work.

“Color?” Castiel checks in before putting the suspension rigging he’s so carefully tied to the test. 

“Green.” Dean sighs dreamily, pulling against his restraints, testing his limits, enjoying the way he’s held captive, the way nothing even remotely budges. Castiel can truly do _whatever_ he wants to him now, and there’s _nothing_ Dean can do about it. That thought _should_ terrify him, and it does leave goosebump-chased chills running down his arms, but not because he’s afraid. Trusting someone so completely the way he does Cas changes _everything._ Dean doesn’t feel restrained, he feels _free._

As Castiel manipulates his torso, moves him around checking ties and circulation, eventually lifting Dean’s body the rest of the way off of the bed and into the air by way of the pulley, that feeling only multiplies. The actual act of suspension isn’t as dramatic as it sounds—Dean’s only hovering a few inches above the mattress, his ass slightly higher than his head. In fact, if he really pushes backward, Dean can skim the top of the twisted sheets below with his hair. 

“I also need to know,” Castiel says, so casually they could be discussing plans to meet up at the Roadhouse after work, “—And you may use your words to answer—what you’ve decided regarding the taking of pictures.” 

“Take whatever pictures you want,” Dean replies immediately, even as he feels himself moving into the air and sees Castiel securing the ropes so that he stays there. “I trust you.” 

“I appreciate your trust in me,” Castiel replies, coming to stand in between Dean’s legs again, and it’s suddenly clear why he didn’t pull Dean higher. He’s suspended at the perfect height for Castiel to fuck him without bending down or having to lean on the bed at all, and Dean is _so into this._ The anticipation, the _excitement_ —it’s making his breath come fast, making his cock twitch against the skin of his abdomen. 

Things start to go a little hazy and blurry after that—Dean truly lets go and succumbs to the submissive headspace he’s begun to crave so badly. It’s been too long since he and Cas have done something _this_ intense, and Dean suddenly remembers _why_ they started doing this to begin with. It’s been easy to forget lately, with the way he’s been stressing and worrying over how things between him and Cas might possibly be changing emotionally, but this is a reminder—they’re _so fucking good_ together this way, too. 

One minute bleeds into the next, and while Castiel is definitely talking, Dean doesn’t always hear. There are wax sticks—hot, burning drops that Castiel spreads all across his body while Dean moans and twists beneath. Cas doesn’t stay between his legs, either, he’s _everywhere._ He’s biting Dean’s collarbone, he’s rubbing still-warm wax into the skin of Dean’s tender inner thighs, he’s pressing Dean’s face into the bulge of his crotch, just the way Dean hoped for. As much as he can, Dean mouths at it enthusiastically, leaving damp spots behind as his way of saying _thank you_ before Castiel pulls away. 

At some point, Castiel breaks out a vibrator, sticks it inside Dean’s ass and levels it directly at his prostate while he continues to torment and tease the rest of Dean’s body. First the wax, then clothespins on his nipples, clipping them on and then flicking them off while deftly stroking Dean’s cock until tears stream from his eyes and he’s _this close_ to breaking Cas’ rule about _words,_ if only just to beg for mercy. 

But he doesn’t need to in the end, because Cas is _so fucking good_ at reading Dean’s body language, at anticipating both his desires _and_ his limits, that he’s already soothing a tongue over Dean’s abused nipples _right_ as Dean is teetering on the edge of losing it.

And then, like the master torturer he is, Cas switches the game up completely, abandoning pain for pleasure completely as he gets down between Dean’s thighs and presses the flat of his tongue unabashedly to Dean’s rim. Right around the edge of the vibrator, teasing and aggressive, Castiel licks and sucks in a way that makes Dean twist and shake and cry out without shame. 

“Fuck, _Cas!”_

 _Damn it,_ he slipped, he knows he slipped, _fuck,_ but Dean’s half out of his mind, nearly delirious, couldn’t have helped it if he tried. “Sorry,” he half-mumbles, half-gasps as another tear leaks from his eye and tracks down over his temple and into his hair. “Sorry, Sir,” he repeats, but Castiel’s already pulling his sweet, sweet mouth away, making a clicking sounds with his tongue that Dean can’t help but groan to hear. 

“Naughty, naughty,” Castiel chastises as he climbs onto the bed, shuffling towards Dean’s head on his knees. As he does, his hands are already unbuckling his pants and pulling his cock out without ceremony. “Open,” he says, pressing a thumb to Dean’s chin to encourage him to do so while rubbing the crown of his cock across Dean’s barely-parted lips. 

Even in Dean’s floaty, altered state, it’s not at all hard for him to tell what Castiel wants, what he’s going to do. With the vibrator still shoved far up his ass, it’s _hardly_ a punishment, but Dean’s certainly not going to say so. He opens his mouth wide, moaning and relaxing his jaw as Castiel slides in deep, giving a few gentle test thrusts before pulling Dean in by the back of his neck, his nose winding up flush to the crease between Cas’ groin and thigh. 

Breathing carefully through his nose, Dean goes pliant as much as he can, swallowing around the intrusion in his throat when he’s able and letting the saliva otherwise run freely down his cheek. He’d love to grab Castiel’s thighs for leverage, but he can’t, just has to let whatever Cas wants to happen, happen. 

Just like always, Castiel is perfectly poised, unaffected in his control, using Dean’s hair to set the speed and rhythm more than his own hips. It’s likely in part because he just loves to pull Dean’s hair, but also probably because he knows Dean enjoys it too. Castiel thrusts in and out of Dean’s mouth and Dean just follows along as best he can, sucking and licking and trying _so_ damn hard to be good after accidentally messing up. 

After a few minutes, he’s rewarded, and it feels like turning his face up to the sun.

“There’s my good boy,” Castiel croons, smoothing a hand over Dean’s cheek while he chokes a little with the head of Castiel’s cock bumping his soft palate. Despite that, Dean doesn’t pull away. “So good for me when he wants to be.” At that, Castiel withdraws, shifting back on the mattress so that there’s room for him to bend down and get on Dean’s eye level. “Answer me, Dean,” he demands softly. “Are you mine?” 

Somewhat dazed, Dean has to suck in a deep breath, his eyes suddenly exhausted and heavy, struggling to stay open as he stares back at Castiel, knowing he must look exactly how he feels—completely undone. 

“Yes, Sir,” he manages, the sound rough and used, even to Dean’s own ears. For a minute, he thinks Cas is going to close the distance between them and kiss him, but all he does is dip his head to nose at the pulse point on Dean’s throat before pulling away. 

It’s a loss. Dean’s close, he’s _really_ close, despite not having been fucked yet, despite the lack of consistent attention to his cock. He’s so hard that it’s painful, so needy and desperate for Cas to take him over the edge that it’s becoming increasingly difficult to stay silent. He _wants,_ God, he _wants._ But, he also wants to be _good._ He _is_ good, for Cas, Cas said so. So instead of giving in to the desire to break the rules and beg, Dean blows out a stream of air from his lungs and tips his head back, counting to ten slowly inside his head. Silently, Dean does his best to center his mind and regain some patience and the semblance of control over his body.

He’s so preoccupied with maintaining that control that he _almost_ misses Castiel removing the vibrator and saying, “I think we’ve both earned this,” right before he spreads Dean’s cheeks and slides home. 

After so many hours of wearing a plug, _plus_ the way Cas has played with, tortured, and toyed with his ass all night, there’s nothing but near-agonizing relief when Castiel pushes inside. Dean expected him to use the spreader bar for leverage but he doesn’t—he grips Dean’s hips, grips _him_ tight _,_ and fucks him mercilessly. Dean’s hands flex in his restraints and his head drops back, eyes closed and mouth open, unable to even pretend he has the strength to hold it up anymore. 

And Cas—suddenly, Dean’s flashing back to his little speech about Dean’s noises, and wanting to hear them all, because Cas is _loud._ Not that he’s usually quiet, but this is next level. He growls and grunts, propping a foot on the bed so he can thrust more forcefully. He moans and cries out and Dean’s _shaking,_ he’s so fucking overwhelmed, struggling to believe that he could really make Cas _feel_ that way, even tied up and doing virtually nothing but clenching his ass. 

It makes it so much easier for Dean to let go, to return Cas’ moans with his own. There’s nothing subtle or slow about his orgasm tonight—no, this one comes on like a freight train. When Dean comes, it’s with Castiel’s fingers shoved down his throat, Castiel’s hips grinding figure eights into his pelvis, cock untouched. It’s so powerful that Dean’s vision whites the fuck out, his legs are shaking relentlessly, and he feels like he actually stops breathing for a moment. 

By the time he comes to, his ass feels warm and wetter than before and Cas’ thrusts are slow, lazy—he’s already finished. _Holy fuck, did they finish at the same time?_ That’s a thought Dean’s going to have to come back to at a later date, when he can actually think, because—yeah. No one _actually_ does that. Climaxing at the same time is for porn flicks and romance novels, but—here Cas is, slipping out of him like that’s what the fuck happened here.

As Dean dazedly muses over that, Castiel lowers him down gently and starts undoing his bindings. Everything in reverse, and it takes longer than Dean would like, considering how tired he is. Also, because Cas is Cas, he insists on working each of Dean’s joints out individually, testing their range of motion and checking for any injury, tenderness, or other signs of a problem.

Thankfully—because Dean just wants to go the fuck to _sleep—_ he passes whatever tests Cas is giving him and earns the reward of orange juice, a banana, and a warm washcloth to the groin, which for some reason feels _extra_ nice tonight. He also gets Cas insisting Dean lay back against his chest while Cas leans up against the headboard, positioned so that he can continue the massage Dean grumbled his way out of after Castiel initially undid his restraints. It doesn’t escape Dean’s notice that he’s still covered in wax, but the patches aren’t uncomfortable and can therefore wait until tomorrow to be dealt with.

Once he’s allowed to pass out, even half-asleep Dean has to admit, there’s nothing wrong with being pampered like this. As he’s drifting off with Cas surrounding him, his hands on Dean’s skin, his lips in Dean’s hair, it occurs to Dean that there was _something_ Cas wanted to talk about earlier. He can’t quite put his finger on it, he’s _so_ fucking tired, but he could swear—they were definitely interrupted at some point and there was _something_ Cas wanted to say.

 _Oh, well. If it’s important, Cas’ll come back to it later,_ he thinks sleepily. Cas is the responsible one, after all. If he’s got something to say, he’ll say it.

Right?

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did y'all enjoy the wedding? And the after-party? lol
> 
> Next time: Cas POV, Dean doubles his fun, Cas misses an opportunity, everything goes up in flames and all Castiel can do is watch.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'll meet you halfway,  
>  if you're coming the long way.  
> Don't care what the people say,  
> of the prodigal runaway.  
> 'Cause hey hey, they don't know you like I do.  
> I wait, for the whole world to show you—  
> maybe we're not, not that gone.  
> -Fire & Rain by Mat Kearney_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: this is a two-chapter arc, it's the climax of the story!! The angst will be resolved next time.  
> Sex tags: sex toys, double penetration, bottom Dean, oral sex, rimming.
> 
> As always, thank you to @Malmuses and @coinofstone for the editing <3 <3
> 
> If you recognize the little bit from the recently-released blooper where Misha pokes fun at Jensen for making a mess, you can blame [Hailee](https://twitter.com/Hailee_RN) for that. ;) If not, you can watch it [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j0amXFZ44FY)

When Castiel wakes, he’s alone. That’s not entirely unusual—there’s no unspoken agreement about _Dean_ not leaving the bed before both of them are fully conscious, but more often than not, Castiel beats him to the punch, anyway. Out of the two of them, Castiel is the least petulant about mornings, not that Dean will ever admit it. In fact, before Dean was staying over regularly, Castiel would frequently wake long before the sun in order to go down to his complex’s gym and get a run in on the treadmill before work. 

Speaking of which… Castiel lifts his head, looking down guiltily as he pokes at his stomach in the dark. To anyone else there would hardly be a noticeable difference there, but _he_ can tell, and that’s what matters. Too many nights of extra drinks and decadent food, too many mornings spent stealing extra minutes with Dean rather than doing the responsible thing and exercising. Still, Castiel would be faking modesty if he claimed he thought he didn’t look _good,_ despite all of the recent indulgences. He’ll just have to get back into a routine that regular work-outs are a part of before that actually changes.

Across the room there’s a light on in the attached bathroom and the door is cracked. Through it, Castiel can hear Dean grumbling about something, but he can’t make out any specific words. Lazily, he stretches, pressing his palms flat against the wall in between the intricately carved twists of the headboard and yawning dramatically. With a sigh, Castiel glances towards the drawn curtains. No light leaks out from their sides, which means it’s _far_ too soon for Dean to be out of bed, everything else aside, and Castiel wants him back. 

They both have to work later tonight, which means there are approximately fourteen hours left for them to make the most of the remaining weekend. Thus far, it’s been one for the books, and Castiel can’t remember a time in his life that he’s ever been happier. 

He _was_ fairly intoxicated at the reception the night before, though. Sober enough by the time they reached his apartment to not be wholly irresponsible in dominating Dean, but perhaps not _quite_ as sober as would have been ideal. Not that he has any regrets—their scene was beautiful and intense, and Castiel’s cock perks up at the mere thought of how Dean had responded so perfectly to everything he’d asked him to take. Dean _is_ perfect, and the more Castiel tastes of him, the hungrier he feels. 

But had Castiel almost ruined that with his near-declaration of love? The mood had felt so right—the wedding, the music, the way their friends had been unceremoniously shoving them together all night long. With the way the alcohol was flowing freely and clouding his mind, it’s hard for Castiel to be _fully_ certain now, looking back. At the time, he’d been so sure Dean was right there with him, giving him as much of a green light as he thinks he’ll ever get from the man. There was that one moment in particular, after the garter ceremony—Dean hadn’t shied away from acknowledging their friends’ scheming and then that _kiss—_ even in the harsh light of day, that sequence of events is hard to paint as anything but tacit approval. 

It’s just so hard to believe. Castiel can come to terms with the idea that Dean’s feelings _may_ be changing, _may_ have morphed into something more for him than simple friendship and lust. It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to acknowledge it, to ask Dean and find out and be _sure—no,_ that’s not the problem any longer. Now, it’s that Castiel just wants to go about things the proper way, lest he try moving too quickly and scare Dean off. In truth, he has no idea what’s going on in the man’s head. Even if true feelings for Castiel are rattling around in there somewhere, _Dean_ hasn’t yet said so—and wouldn’t he? 

Just as Castiel had decided that night after the rehearsal dinner, he must continue to tread lightly. There will always be more time. If there’s one important realization Castiel has had, it’s that Dean doesn’t seem interested in going _anywhere._ It would appear that the two of them have all the time and space they need to feel this thing out slowly and work through it properly, whatever that might mean. Castiel just needs to be patient, and let Dean show him what he needs. Just like they’ve been doing.

But screw patience when it comes to early morning cuddles. Castiel’s not a saint, after all. Fed up with waiting for Dean to return, he kicks the covers off, wincing at the stiffness in their movement and making a mental note to change the sheets later, after Dean leaves. At the bathroom door, he raps but doesn’t wait for a reply before pushing it open—if Dean truly wanted privacy, he would have closed it. Besides, he’s cursing up a storm on the other side and Castiel doesn’t want to give Dean the opportunity to deprive him of finding out why. 

It takes Castiel a minute for his eyes to adjust to the comparatively bright light of the bathroom, and he blinks against the discomfort. When Dean comes into focus, he’s naked and scowling at Castiel in the mirror above the vanity. Castiel tips his head to the side, momentarily confused but abruptly understanding when Dean’s fist opens above the sink in front of him and releases a flutter of tiny wax pieces, all drifting down and sticking in the basin. 

Upon more careful inspection, Castiel notes all the tiny red marks littering Dean’s front. They’re not burns, just minor irritation from where the leftover wax has adhered to the tiny, fine hairs on Dean’s skin. Castiel suppresses a smirk and plasters himself in what _he_ feels is a cleverly ironic fashion to Dean’s back, wrapping arms around his middle and tucking his chin over Dean’s shoulder. 

“You’re being very dramatic about all this,” he scolds good-naturedly. “My tough, strong, pain-loving submissive moaning and groaning over a little wax that’s _meant_ for this very purpose.” Castiel tsks and shakes his head slightly, taking the opportunity to nose at Dean’s ear. “Whatever shall I do with you?” 

In his arms, Dean softens, and no matter how many times Castiel sees his demeanor change that way, it _never_ gets old. What a profound effect they have on each other, he and Dean. In ways no one else can, Castiel is able to make Dean _soft,_ pliable, subservient. And Dean—Dean can make him _love._

Dean clears his throat, and Castiel recognizes the gesture, the hesitation—Dean has something to say, there’s something that he wants. So he waits, and lets Dean work it from his brain to his tongue. “Sir,” he starts, and _oh, yes, this is promising._ “I know that you had plans for a scene this morning, with the—the feeding and riding me and—don’t get me wrong, okay? That sounds fuckin’ awesome.”

“Mmm,” Castiel agrees when Dean pauses, tipping his head down to kiss at Dean’s neck, an idle distraction that will hopefully assist Dean in admitting to whatever it is he’s working towards. “But?” 

Dean huffs a small laugh, reaching back to grab Castiel’s ass and bring them flush together. The way he does it has Castiel’s semi-hard cock nudging _just_ between his cheeks, not enough to brush his hole. In response, Dean makes a disgruntled sound, leaning forward against the vanity to present his ass more effectively.

“Hello,” Castiel says, surprised, but not displeased in the least.

“Get up in there,” Dean grunts and Castiel makes a disapproving face at him in the mirror. “Don’t worry, I cleaned up again. Just _feel,_ okay?” His elbows are on the marble countertop and he’s looking over his shoulder expectantly. 

Quirking an eyebrow up, Castiel obliges, brushing two fingers firmly over Dean’s hole and understanding immediately what he’s getting at. Despite being dry, Dean’s rim is soft and gives easily, though Castiel doesn’t press inside, just touches gently. Clearly embarrassed, Dean ducks his head but not before Castiel can catch the pretty flush that stains his cheeks. “Are you worried, or—?”

“No,” Dean replies quickly, _too_ quickly and _ah_ —that isn’t all he was trying to say. _Interesting._ Castiel waits, his index finger still lazily circling Dean’s hole, while Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I’ve been thinking,” he continues, finally, “about… _doublepenetrationinonehole_.” He says the last part so quickly, like it’s all one word, and Castiel struggles not to crack a smile. The phrasing, of course, is lifted directly from Castiel’s kinks negotiation list, where Dean rated his interest in _this_ particular activity an unenthusiastic “maybe.” 

One of the least compelling selections possible, aside from “No,” it’s a big reason why Castiel hasn’t ventured to test Dean’s interest in that particular kink as of yet. That, and the fact that each Wednesday, when they review their lists, Dean never wavers on his answer there. Until now, that is. 

“I’m stretched the _fuck_ out from last night,” Dean explains bluntly, rubbing at the back of his neck, which has turned a pretty pink as he speaks. “I dunno what you did back there, but I’m pretty sure I could shove a baseball up my ass if I wanted to right now. At _least_ a tennis ball.” 

“What a sight that would be,” Castiel replies, struggling and failing miserably at not picturing Dean as one of those machines that fires balls in cages for people to practice hitting. It’s incredibly unfortunate that this is a sensitive subject and he can’t share, undoubtedly Dean would get a kick out of that joke made at anyone else’s expense. Somehow, Castiel doesn’t think he’ll feel the same when the punchline is his own ass.

“So?” Dean prompts, breaking Castiel out of that ridiculous reverie, and he hesitates. 

If Dean had been a hard no previously, Castiel wouldn’t even consider diving in like this, but he knows Dean pretty well. It seems likely to Castiel that Dean’s “maybe” was based on fear of the unknown and anticipation, perhaps a few other things that aren’t quite as important as those. The bottom line is, Castiel doesn’t think Dean was ever disinterested, exactly—just not ready. And there’s no reason for him to go out of his way _now_ to ask for something he isn’t completely sure he wants. Something Dean clearly finds embarrassing to admit aloud, at that.

And he wants to reward Dean for using his words, for communicating his needs so effectively the way that he has. Castiel’s proud of him, wants him to know that, wants to give him the world in return. On the other hand, he also takes a _lot_ of pleasure in teasing Dean, too. 

Without first replying, Castiel pulls one of Dean’s cheeks to the side before taking his steadily-filling-out cock in hand. He rubs the smooth crown of it against Dean’s hole, leaving wetness behind and Dean gasping, still bent over the counter next to the sink. “Eager,” Castiel remarks offhandedly before letting go of Dean completely, stepping to the side, and grabbing his toothbrush from its holder. 

“So tell me,” he says casually, squeezing some toothpaste onto his brush like he and Dean are discussing nothing more controversial than the weather. Meanwhile, Dean gapes up at him in disbelief. “What is it that you want me to do?” 

“Sir, please,” Dean groans, turning his face into his forearms so Castiel can’t watch it flush as he scrubs away at his teeth, creating a foamy mess that drips into the sink. Mouth occupied, he doesn’t bother to dignify Dean’s complaint with a response, just goes about his business and waits. Dean will answer, he always does.

From beside him, there’s a long-suffering sigh. “Fuck me,” Dean tells the countertop. “With your dick. And a fake dick. At the same time. Please. Sir.” 

Castiel spits into the sink and rinses it out, filling a Dixie cup with some water. “Any fake dick? We have that Jeff Stryker model—” Before he can even finish that sentence, Dean’s head shoots up with alarm in his eyes. At least, until they meet Castiel’s and subsequently narrow.

“I cannot believe you’re fucking with me right now! That is _so_ not cool, dude— _Sir._ ” Dean flinches a little, clearly prepared for Castiel to punish him for the slip, but Castiel just laughs. In fairness, Dean’s not wrong, that was somewhat cruel. The Stryker dildo is…true to size. Castiel finishes rinsing his mouth, replaces the toothbrush, and tosses the little paper cup in the trash before slipping an arm under Dean’s and helping him stand, pulling him in tight to his body.

“Dean,” Castiel says sincerely, when Dean’s secure against his chest and can’t look away. “I’ll take care of you. I promise you that.” 

***

As stretched as Dean might already be, it’s not enough to comfortably take two cocks (or a tennis ball, no matter what Dean thinks). So Castiel lays Dean out on the bed, stepping away briefly to grab a particular toy he’s long had in mind for this, _should_ the occasion ever arise. It’s a realistic looking and feeling dildo that has vibration capability and a very natural, skin-like feeling when touched. Slightly smaller in girth than an average-sized cock, which seems about right for Dean’s first time with two. 

In truth, Castiel is definitely suspicious that Dean would gladly consent to (and enjoy) being fucked by more than one man at a time (or a woman), but that is not on the menu for Castiel. It has nothing to do with trust, either. Ultimately, Castiel’s never going to be the sort of person who can _share,_ never going to be okay with casual strangers in his bed. It’s a hard limit (not even that—it’s part of who he _is),_ and he doesn’t see that changing in the future. In light of those things, the least he can do is try to make experiences like this mimic the real thing as much as possible for Dean. 

If Dean enjoys it, perhaps Castiel will get one of those torsos you can ride—that would certainly take things to the next level, as far as realism goes. And perhaps they could take this scene to the BDSM club, allow others to participate with them in that way. Dean’s responded favorably to the semi-public sex they’ve had and the times they’ve discussed it, and Castiel has absolutely no objection to watching or being watched—they just haven’t made time to actually get down to the club yet. It’s something to prioritize, though—Dean deserves to explore his kinks and his limits. Perhaps the next weekend they’re both off, they can go. 

Returning to the bed, Castiel smiles down at his wonderfully patient sub. Dean is _so_ good when he wants to be, splayed out exactly where Castiel left him, his ass propped up on some pillows and arms above his head. “I don’t want to restrain you for this,” he says. “But I’m going to give you the cuffs to hold onto, something to pull on if need be.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Dean says softly, and nothing more. Castiel recognizes that he’s nervous, so he sets down the items he’s brought on the mattress and crawls between Dean’s legs, covering Dean’s body with his own. He kisses Dean, soft and deep, smoothing a hand over the side of his head and into his hair, reassuring and sweet, until Dean relaxes beneath him. As he does, Castiel grabs the cuffs from where they’re tied to the posts at either side of the bed, placing one into each of Dean’s hands. 

“You won’t _need_ them,” he assures his anxious sub, adding a wink. “But you may want them. I’m going to make you feel so good, Dean.” As Castiel sits up again, he pauses. “Having your hands free is a gift, so don’t make me take them away. Keep them above your head until I say otherwise.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Dean agrees, still more subdued than normal, but that’s not unusual for him when they’re trying something new. Castiel expects Dean will come apart beautifully beneath his hands, just like he always does, and the thought makes his own cock twitch. 

“Safeword?” 

“Impala.”

“And are you using it?”

“No, Sir.” 

“My good boy.” 

Dean preens, and Castiel has a strange thought. “Dean,” he says carefully. “You know that using your safeword is the right thing to do, if you need to?” 

“‘Course, Sir,” Dean replies, shifting a little against the sheets and blinking up at Castiel curiously. 

“And that, being good has nothing to do with the fact that you are _not_ using your safeword?” Something flickers across Dean’s face, and Castiel’s suddenly glad he followed his instincts on this. He grabs Dean’s chin, forces him to maintain eye contact. “Dean, you are wonderfully good and sweet, and will never be less so for enforcing your boundaries and limits. Please assure me you understand that.” Castiel softens his tone on the last sentence, wanting Dean to comprehend that this is important to him, personally, that he truly cares that Dean accepts and internalizes what he’s saying. 

He must look upset, because Dean’s brow furrows and he visibly slips back into his normal persona, out of any subspace that might have been creeping in. As Castiel stares down at him, Dean struggles up onto his elbows, balancing on one so that he can reach out and touch Castiel’s face. “Yea, Cas,” he says pointedly, voice full of solemn empathy. “I hear you. I promise.”

The little smirk Dean offers then is enough to snap Castiel right back into Dom-mode, and he shoves Dean’s shoulders so that he flops down flat on the bed with a pleased gasp. “Fuck, yes,” Dean whispers. 

Castiel doesn’t waste any more time getting busy in between Dean’s legs. He starts with two fingers, lubing them up and slipping without resistance inside Dean’s hole, watching his face for any reaction. Dean doesn’t disappoint, biting his lip and letting his eyes flutter closed, flexing his hips down onto Castiel’s hand. If they didn’t have an end goal in mind, Castiel could do this endlessly—just touching and teasing Dean until he falls to pieces and begs for release. He’s beautiful that way.

Surely, they’ll get there, but not like this. Even four of Castiel’s fingers aren’t going to cut it for where they’re going today. Time to up the ante. When Castiel withdraws his hand, Dean writhes against the mattress and complains (as expected) but Castiel pays him no mind—he _wants_ Dean lost to the sensations, wants him _really_ into what they’re doing.

“Sir, come on, don’t treat me with kid gloves!”

Again, Castiel ignores him, except to say, “All good things in time,” which makes Dean snort and drape an arm dramatically across his forehead. Castiel responds by shoving the fake cock he’s holding inside of him in one go, and Dean abruptly stops mouthing off. 

The dildo helps move things along, and Dean is relaxed enough that Castiel’s fucking him easily on it within a scarce two minutes. Feeling bold, he adds more lube and starts to test Dean’s limits, fitting first one finger and then the next inside his ass around the silicone. Castiel’s been both careful and patient, and Dean’s’ rim is stretched but willing, so they both pop past with little issue. 

On the receiving end, Dean’s breath is coming short now, and Castiel has to stop working the dildo to soothe a hand up his abdomen and chest several times. “Breathe,” he says softly, leaning down to kiss Dean open-mouthed and deep until he has no choice but to slow himself down and unclench his muscles again. 

They proceed like that for a while, letting Dean adjust and accommodate, Castiel leaning down to suck his cock until it’s hard and leaking again any time it flags alongside a new intrusion. Dean is wonderfully pliant in Castiel’s hands, taking everything he’s given and still crying out for more. 

It’s a struggle, therefore, for Castiel to hold out on swapping the fake cock he’s wielding for the real thing, but the angle and the slip of the silicone make it much easier to work his fingers in. Still, he’s not hesitant when he _does_ deem it time, and Dean’s pleas to feel Castiel inside him fuel the already roiling heat in his stomach into an unruly blaze. 

Pushing inside Dean feels like coming home, and despite what they’re doing, despite the fact that this is a _scene,_ Castiel can’t help but indulge his desires for a minute. He rolls his hips gently into Dean’s warm, wet heat, feels the rumble of Dean’s answering groan echoing through his chest when he covers Dean’s body with his own. 

As Dean’s arms close around his back, holding Castiel tight, he sighs into the crook of Dean’s neck, presses a kiss to the sensitive area just beneath his right ear. Dean’s skin is warm and soft and Castiel _craves_ this feeling, the way it is when they’re pressed together just like this. It doesn’t happen often during sex—not the way he and Dean do it—and so now that they are, it’s nearly as intoxicating as the alcoholic drinks they both consumed the night before.

Beneath him, Castiel can feel Dean’s stomach muscles tensing and relaxing as he rocks his pelvis to take Castiel’s cock more deeply, can feel the hard planes of his chest, his heartbeat, and the way his head tips back in ecstasy against Castiel’s cheek. He relishes Dean’s thighs tight around his hips, the way Dean’s ankles lock and his heels dig into Castiel’s ass, urging him on. He could drown in all the little sounds Dean makes, the rush of his breath from his chest and through his lips, and _oh,_ Castiel loves him so. 

It’s perhaps one of the hardest things Castiel’s ever done—drawing back from this exhilarating, heady, fucking _boring, totally vanilla_ sex they’re having, but he does, because Dean—Dean has expectations and… Castiel fumbles, even in his own head, to come up with reasons why he _needs_ to pull away, but he’s _sure_ they’re there—just out of his conscious mind’s addled, Dean-drunk reach. 

Once he’s straightened up and has Dean’s thighs in his hands, the look on Dean’s face nearly has Castiel diving back in all over again. Truly, he’s a wonder to behold; all drowsy and aroused, heavy-lidded and swollen-lipped as he is. His lush green eyes are dark, nearly all pupil, and his freckles stand out brightly against the flush in his cheeks. 

“Sheer perfection,” Castiel murmurs, dragging his own thumb down over Dean’s lip, letting it catch and reveling in the way Dean’s breath subsequently stutters on its way out. “The things you do to me.”

Pulling his bottom lip in between his teeth, Dean’s eyes fill with mischief and he bucks his hips. “Show me,” he demands, and then cheekily adds, “Sir.” 

With a low chuckle, Castiel resumes thrusting into Dean, languid strokes that make it easy for him to reach down and work fingers around his cock once again. It’s all Castiel inside Dean now, and he _almost_ wants to keep it that way, out of some bizarre, possessive notion that hardly makes any logical sense. 

Dean slips back into the rhythm easily, and after a few strokes against his prostate that have him really loose and whining, Castiel picks up the dildo again. Slicking its length, Castiel pulls almost all the way out, enough that he can line the fake cock up alongside his own and they can press in together. Slowly, carefully, and with Dean alternately tensing and forcing himself to relax, Castiel guides them both inside.

It’s a tough thing, being a Dom in a situation like this, because the pleasure on _his_ end is _fucking_ exquisite. Between the vice-like tightness, the heat of Dean’s walls, and the pressure/sensation from the veiny silicone he’s sharing space with, it’s all Castiel can do not to let his eyes roll back in his head and ram them both home. It’s only through years of depriving himself gratification and practicing self-control that Castiel’s able to grit his teeth and resist the urge to buck his hips and chase the stimulation he craves, ignoring the way his whole body feels like it’s on fire, sweat rolling down his shoulder blades and the side of his face. 

“ _Dean,”_ he murmurs. “Are you alright? Color, Dean.” 

Both cocks are almost fully seated, and Castiel stops moving until Dean pulls himself together enough to murmur, “Green.” His hand is wrapped around Castiel’s bicep, nails digging into the muscle, but Castiel’s not about to chastise him for touching before he gave the word—not now, and not when he so conveniently ignored it when it served _him_ to indulge his vanilla whims. 

Below him, Dean’s chest heaves and glistens with a thin sheen of sweat himself, and Dean pants, licking his lips while his eyes roam across the ceiling a little wildly. “Dean,” Castiel repeats. “Talk to me, sweet boy.” 

“‘M good,” Dean manages with a nod, head tipping back as he tries to force his hips down the rest of the way, but Castiel holds firm and won’t give it to him just yet. “C’mon Cas, I can take it,” he begs. “I want it—please, _please_ , Sir.” 

Castiel obliges, _how could he not?_ He’s so pleased and proud of Dean, so turned on by the way he’s spread out and willing to do anything Castiel desires of him. When both cocks can go no further, Castiel gives Dean another moment to adjust, and then starts to move. He’s careful to hold the dildo in place and to not be too rough or demanding, but there’s plenty of lube in the mix and Dean’s rim is doing just fine. Castiel fingers it admiringly as he rolls his pelvis, and Dean moans, flexing his hips up for more. 

With his ass so full, Dean’s prostate has to be getting fairly constant stimulation, and it’s not long before Dean is completely undone beneath him, near-sobbing and clawing at Castiel’s shoulders, begging for contact, for release. Not that Castiel’s stopping him, but Dean _can_ come untouched, and Castiel definitely thinks this is the right time to do so. 

A few more drawn-out internal strokes and Dean is tensing up all around him, and just like last night, that’s enough to drag Castiel’s last ounce of self-control from his grasp. While Dean cries out and grabs a handful of Castiel’s hair, Castiel himself is burying his face in Dean’s chest, second dildo forgotten and slipping out as he buries himself deep, shaking and finishing with a thrust against Dean’s body that is anything but gentle. 

The world turns hazy for a few minutes as Castiel sighs into Dean’s skin and slowly comes back to his senses. Usually, he’s fairly alert after he and Dean finish, jumping up and out of bed right away, grabbing aftercare items for Dean and ensuring his sub gets what he needs. Today, Castiel is wiped. Whether from the alcohol or the multiple rounds of intense sex, or something completely else, that last orgasm did him in. 

When his arms stop tingling and his brain sticks itself back together enough that Castiel can process a coherent thought, he realizes that Dean is holding him and petting his hair. “Apologies,” he says swiftly, casting Dean a rueful look as he tries to shove his way up and off of the bed. “Let me just—”

“Hey.” Dean stops him, reaching out to cup Castiel’s jaw and dragging him back down for a deep, unhurried kiss. That’s new, too. “No worries,” Dean says when they part, Castiel feeling slightly dazed and off-kilter all over again, especially at the brightness of Dean’s smile. “I only needed that.” 

Castiel smiles back before glancing down at the way their torsos pressing together has smeared the mess Dean made on his stomach around. He sighs, narrowing his eyes at Dean and gesturing towards it. “Look what you did. Who’s going to clean that up?”

Mere suggestion is all Dean needs, his eyes flashing before his head dips down, mouthing enthusiastically over his own spend as Castiel works fingers into his hair. “Use your tongue,” he suggests, and Dean huffs a laugh against his skin but complies. When he’s done, Dean drags said tongue all the way up Castiel’s chest and neck, nipping at his jaw before capturing his mouth again. 

The cooling wet trail and the feeling of Dean’s lips against his own has Castiel shivering, wanting to grab at Dean again, to throw him down and see what else he can wring from his body, but he’s also pretty fucking tired himself.

With great self-restraint (again), he forces himself to go retrieve a warm washcloth, some cream, and Dean’s juice. On the way back to the bed, Castiel stops at the beside table and presses the home button on his phone. After checking the time, he’s pleased to see that it’s barely approaching seven a.m. They have _hours_ to sleep and then share a shower and greasy brunch together. Perhaps Dean would even like to watch a movie after that, before they both have to go their separate ways. After all they’ve been through this weekend, some extra cuddling and contact is certainly in order. 

Dean seems to feel the same, anxious as he is to drag Castiel back under the covers before he’s done even a passable job of cleaning up and caring for Dean. Though he has to hold the glass and tip the liquid into Dean’s mouth near-forcibly, Castiel does manage to get most of the juice into him before Dean’s adamant twisting of their limbs together wins out and he has to put the cup down. 

“You need to drink that,” he admonishes sternly, which is hard to do with a sappy smile on your face.

“I need _you,_ ” Dean counters, eyebrows raised, and if that isn’t a _checkmate,_ Castiel doesn’t know what is. Poking Castiel in the ribs, Dean grins and waggles said eyebrows, and Castiel rolls his eyes, because he can’t just admit he’s putty in Dean’s hands. “C’mon, give me something good to think about tonight when I’m all alone and stuck in the shitty bunk by the door with the janky frame.” 

“I believe I’ve already given you _many_ “good things” to think about, greedy. Also, Station Fifteen’s mattresses were at least replaced sometime in the last decade,” Castiel reminds him, as Dean settles easily into his arms, head pillowed on his chest. “I’m fairly certain ours were purchased in the estate sale from that defunct nursing home on Fourth Street.” 

“That’s maybe the most disgusting thing you’ve ever said, Cas.”

“It’s true,” Castiel replies defensively. “At least, I think it’s true.” Dean snorts and buries his face into the side of Castiel’s neck, one arm slung casually around his torso. Castiel’s eyes slip closed as he feels Dean inhaling a deep, satisfied breath, holding his own as Dean blows it back out, hot on Castiel’s skin. 

It would be so _easy_ to tell him, right now. The moment even feels right. _I love you,_ he would say, and Dean—what _would_ Dean say in return? Castiel _hopes,_ prays, _feels_ the way Dean holds him so tenderly, and it’s hard to imagine a situation where he _wouldn’t_ reply in kind. _This can’t be imagined,_ he thinks. Socially awkward as he may be, this is _Dean,_ and Castiel _knows_ Dean. Why is it so hard to fully believe he might be right about this, too? 

So then, _why_ doesn’t Dean _say_ so? 

Sucking in a deep breath and blowing it back out, Castiel pushes those thoughts aside. There’s no reason to taint their afterglow or the rest of their day together with confusing “what if”s. Later, when they’re away from the playroom and on even footing, when they’re not looking down the barrel of several nights in a row apart, Castiel will consider testing the waters. 

_Not now._ The worst thing he could do is send Dean away on another misunderstanding or miscommunication that they’ll both have to stew over alone, inevitably twisting and blowing it up into something that it’s not. So, later it is. _Not today._

In his arms, Dean sighs blissfully, so Castiel wraps both arms even tighter around him and turns more fully to face his friend. “I’m very grateful to have you, Dean,” he ends up saying, because he just can’t leave well enough alone.

In response, Dean nuzzles back, his hair tickling Castiel’s lips and nose, making him smile. “‘S’me too, Casss,” Dean slurs, clearly the better part of the way to unconsciousness already, so Castiel stops needling at what’s between them and joins him.

***

_Domestic;_ that’s the word for what they’re doing, the explanation behind the warm, fluttery feeling in Castiel’s chest when he looks down and sees Dean sprawled between his legs. 

They’ve retreated to the couch now, after waking up lazily, showering slowly, and cooking a meal that’s going to take several hours on the treadmill for Castiel to burn off. As much as Castiel enjoyed the wedding yesterday; the public play and the teasing and— _yes,_ he can admit it—the _romance_ of it all, this is something different. As much as he wishes _every_ night and every morning could be filled with the kind of wildly satisfying sex and submission they’ve shared, it’s these last few hours he’s spent with Dean that Castiel has enjoyed the most.

And isn’t that bizarre? Despite the fact that Castiel can recognize (now) that he’s had budding feelings for Dean for quite some time, long before they ever slept together, this is an outcome he could never have foreseen. Having someone in his space who feels as if they belong there, like they’re some kind of piece to his puzzle Castiel didn’t even realize he was missing (and now can’t imagine living without).

Even when Meg was in his life, she never once stayed for this part (not that Castiel wanted her to). They were Dom and Sub in the playroom, and in public, they were friends. They didn’t shower together outside of scenes, didn’t kiss for no reason at all, didn’t share the burden of chores and clean-up. Perhaps most notably, they didn’t spend _days on end_ in each other’s company just because they _could._

This is brand-new territory he and Dean are exploring, and it frightens Castiel a little at how much he _loves_ it. How desperately he wants this to be his everyday reality, and for Dean to want the same thing. The boring, the mundane, the rote. Castiel wants to be dull and domestic _with Dean,_ and he can’t quite figure out how and when that happened.

He wants today on repeat: stripping soiled bed sheets with Dean standing on the other side of the mattress, cracking terrible jokes and acting entirely carefree. The way Dean so easily gathers the dirty sheets and drops them in the hamper before making his way over to the usually-covered window and pulling the curtains, lifting up the sash to help air out the room. He’s so _natural,_ so comfortable in Castiel’s home. 

Of course, Dean’s always been that way, hasn’t he? He just hasn’t been that way wearing nothing except Castiel’s collar, Castiel’s fingerprint bruises, and Castiel’s teeth marks. 

That thought alone was enough to bring him to a screeching halt, having to closely examine whether it was _possessiveness_ over Dean that was driving his feelings of late. Of course, that devastating thought was easy enough to discard as Castiel watched Dean finish re-making the bed, kneeing back onto the fresh sheets with a mischievous grin on his face.

“Wanna mess these up too, Sir?” he asked, and Castiel melted. 

Dean is already his, and what Castiel feels for him—what he craves _from him—_ goes far beyond simple jealousy or the desire to _keep_ him. No, Castiel wants _all_ of this. Wants Dean here all the time, wants this space to be _their_ space and for Dean to _always_ move around it as freely as Castiel’s watched him do today. 

Because none of it stopped in the playroom. It’s certainly not new territory for the two of them to forgo leaving their roles at the playroom door, but _nothing_ they’ve done since they’ve stepped outside it has been about sex. Service, perhaps. Submission, definitely, but not _sex,_ and sex is what their relationship— _their contract_ —is predicated on. Sex is _all_ that is, really, at the end of the day. So the spillover comes back to one of two things: either Dean’s novice nature to the BDSM community is making him confused, or this is something he wants too.

_Perhaps that’s the segue I need,_ Castiel thinks. He could bring these things up in the context of their weekly contract review, test the waters that way and see how Dean responds. It would be… _safer,_ for both of their hearts and their friendship. That is, if Castiel has somehow misinterpreted the signals he believes with increasing certainty that Dean has been sending. In that setting, Dean will have an easy out, if he wishes to take it, to say that he simply didn’t understand the boundaries and limits of a Dom/Sub relationship and their contract. And if that’s the case, they can fix that going forward, and Castiel will let the rest go.

But _God,_ Castiel prays he isn’t wrong. He’ll bend to Dean’s wishes, he’ll do whatever it takes to keep whatever parts of Dean he’s allowed to share, but—it would be crushing. The _first_ time he’s truly felt romantic love, to have it rejected and scorned—well, that possibility is not something Castiel is able to look at too closely, not while Dean is around him, anyway. It’s a devastating concept. 

So Castiel just _hopes,_ hopes _so_ badly that Dean will let Castiel love him. 

This certainly feels like love. The way they move so easily around each other while cooking in the kitchen, the way Dean thinks nothing of invading Castiel’s space as he pushes eggs around in a frying pan. The way Castiel’s coffee is made exactly to his liking and kept filled until they settle down together, and the way Dean kneels at Castiel’s feet without him even asking. 

Hand-feeding Dean _could_ be sexual and certainly has been in the past, but today it feels different. Dean holds Castiel’s eye contact, lingers in licking and sucking the food from his fingers, but the air between them is charged in a way that has nothing to do with simple arousal and getting _off._ As Dean settles against Castiel’s thigh, between his legs, Castiel keeps a hand in his hair the whole time. He nearly sticks his fingers into his coffee several times for his inability to look away, but it’s worth it—it _feels_ like love between them, as much as Castiel has any clue, any _guess_ as to how love is supposed to feel. 

Dean is so unlike himself these days, or perhaps Castiel has that backward. Maybe _this_ Dean is the true Dean, the one that feels free to shed his tough facade and just be the soft, gentle boy that lives inside of him. The part of Dean that’s usually deemed weak and sequestered away where no one is allowed to see, set free. He’s so quick to take _care_ of Castiel, looks so entirely _happy_ to be tasked with mundane chores and routine activities that Castiel himself would usually loathe doing on his own. Today, it all feels like some kind of magic.

Chores done, bellies full, and kitchen cleaned up, they’d settled onto the couch to watch _Star Wars_ several hours prior. Dean had fussed about watching the movies in a particular order that Castiel hopes Dean never has cause to realize he was not paying attention to. In fact, he’s barely glanced up at the screen, so taken with the way Dean looks and feels in his arms that he can’t think of one good reason why he should watch anything else but the way his chest rises and falls. 

Over Dean’s bare stomach, their right hands are twisted together, and the blanket Castiel keeps on the back of the couch drapes lazily over Dean’s hips and Castiel’s legs just below that. When Dean hums in quiet satisfaction, Castiel resumes petting his hair from where his other arm has fallen away in distraction. 

Absently, Dean shakes his own free hand out from under the blankets and reaches to press the home button on his phone that’s sitting next to them on the coffee table. He groans. “Gotta take off soon,” he says softly, the reluctance clear in his voice, and privately, Castiel savors it. 

“I know,” he replies, unable to resist pressing a soft kiss just behind Dean’s ear. 

“Hmm,” Dean responds, wiggling a little against Castiel’s chest and groin, which makes him smile.

“Don’t start,” he warns. “We do not have the time.” 

“I didn’t start shit,” Dean retorts, and he’s not exactly wrong, there. “But you’re right. Hey, lucky you—get to lay around doing nothing for another hour at least before you gotta get moving. You’re already home.”

Just barely, Castiel resists the urge to tell Dean that he could be home, too, if that’s what he wants. _Not the time._

When Dean leans forward and stands with a luxurious stretch that highlights every carved muscle in his back and shoulders, Castiel can hardly enjoy it. Apparently, he’ll be playing the role of “petulant brat” in their relationship today. Dean should spank him. _Not the time!_

As he pouts and Dean wanders about gathering his things, Castiel tries half-heartedly to identify the plot of the movie that’s still playing, but it’s too far in and he’s irredeemably lost. Instead, he watches as Dean reverently replaces his collar in its box before dipping into Castiel’s bedroom, emerging wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants of Castiel’s that fit him like sin. Castiel realizes he must have made some sort of face at the sight because Dean grins, flashing that smile that means he’s truly amused, the one where he sticks his tongue just behind his teeth. 

_Someone stab me in heart, it would be less painful,_ Castiel thinks.

Wednesday cannot come soon enough. And yet—

“Hey,” Dean says off-handedly as he’s pulling on his boots, snapping his fingers like he’s just recalled an important thought. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to tell me? Something you wanted to talk about? I could swear we got interrupted last night, but I’ll admit,” he taps his temple, “It’s all kinda fuzzy.” He straightens up and suddenly, his expression becomes weirdly intense. 

Castiel fidgets. Almost everything in him is screaming to just _tell Dean_ how he feels, and _something_ about Dean’s faux-casual bullshit is setting off alarms in Castiel’s head. On the other hand, all his thoughts from earlier come flooding back, along with the hauntingly frightening possibility that Dean _doesn’t_ love him the way he loves Dean. 

And that has Castiel’s anxiety flaring, has him clutching at the blanket nervously in his lap, has him scared. Enough that he can’t do _anything_ but default back to his previously made plan to test the waters about this in a way that ensures Dean has an out. An out that might be the difference between preserving what they _do_ have and losing it completely. And that, Castiel can _not_ risk.

He swallows heavily and tries to look innocent, blinking back at Dean and shaking his head. “No idea,” he lies. “I’m sure I did, at some point, but… I also had too much to drink.” Castiel licks his dry lips and watches Dean’s face carefully. To the casual observer, it would appear that Dean has no reaction, but Castiel knows Dean so much better than that. The light in his eyes dims slightly and his smile becomes just a _little_ tight.

Now Castiel’s starting to panic for an entirely different reason, wondering if that _was_ the opening he’s been waiting for and he just— _oh, no._

Dean’s turning towards the door when Castiel jumps off of the couch and follows. “Dean,” he calls out. “Dean, wait.” 

“No worries, Cas,” Dean says, huffing a little laugh and turning to face Castiel. Up close, he just looks tired, but his smile is genuine again and Castiel wonders if he imagined the strain on Dean’s face before. It’s certainly possible, the way he’s been all up in his own feelings about all of this. As a test, he opens his arms imploringly and Dean nearly falls into them, squeezing Castiel tight and rocking them both back and forth from side to side. “Alright,” Dean says. “We’re good, pal.” 

When he pulls back, Dean winks and claps Castiel on the shoulder. “Text me when you get to work. Lemme know who you’re on with and stuff. If the guys are up for it, I’ll see if they wanna grab coffee and donuts, bring the engine, we can all hang at your place. Play cards or something. Cool?” 

It’s been a while since they’ve done anything like that, and Castiel finds himself nodding enthusiastically. It would be a real pleasure to see Dean at work, and it would probably go a long way towards soothing his nerves over some potential misunderstanding brewing between them. Plus, poker and company will make work seem hardly like work at all. 

“Yes,” he agrees. “That would be wonderful. I’ll look forward to it.”

Dean waves as the door closes behind him. “I’ll see ya, Cas.” 

Despite their apparent resolution, the click of the lock leaves Castiel feeling totally unsettled. No one is dropping and everything, on paper, is fine. And yet, something doesn’t feel right. Castiel can’t help but worry he’s made a huge misstep, missed an opening he was too busy looking for to actually _see._ That would be so like him, Castiel is reluctant to dismiss the possibility.

He stands in the middle of the entryway, wiping his suddenly-sweaty hands against his pajama pants and worrying. Hopefully, if he did screw this up, it’s nothing he can’t fix in time. 

***

“And your medical history, tell me again about that,” Castiel prompts, balancing his clipboard on his thighs while bracing his feet against the bars of the stretcher to keep himself from sliding around on the bench seat. Sirens wail in the background, not so much out of necessity for their patient but the need to get the ambulance back in service quickly—all their trucks are out. 

“Well,” begins the slight, frail elderly woman currently strapped to Castiel’s stretcher. “There’s my high blood pressure.” He plasters on a practiced “interested and empathetic” expression, but inwardly, he’s sighing. Mrs. Baxter calls 911 several times a month complaining of “chest pain,” but in reality, she’s just very lonely and prone to indigestion. Still, Castiel’s job isn’t to judge—everyone with “chest pain” gets the same workup, regardless. 

Thus, for the second time in two weeks, Mrs. Baxter is in the back of City Medic Two, hooked up to a cardiac monitor, blood pressure cuff, and pulse ox, having been given aspirin and a nitroglycerin tablet left to dissolve under her tongue. She particularly dislikes that part but always says it helps her pain, so Castiel can’t even get away with skipping it. 

He taps his pen on the side of the clipboard and cycles her blood pressure again, absently glancing out the back window to see the lines on the highway whipping along through the ambulance’s tail lights before disappearing into inky blackness. 

Mrs. Baxter is rattling on about her diabetes and the stent she had placed in 2002, but Castiel’s only half-listening. Nothing about her medical history has changed in the five or so days since he brought her in last, and the hospital will have an accurate record to print for him. His question was mainly to give Mrs. Baxter something to chat about, since left to her own devices she’s eternally trying to set him up with her supposedly very accomplished and attractive single granddaughter. 

They’re headed to the smaller hospital just beyond the outskirts of the city so the ride is slightly longer than Castiel’s used to. When they’re five minutes out, he calls report in to the Emergency Department over the radio and faxes a copy of the EKG (normal, nothing acute going on that he can see) along with it. Since Mrs. Baxter seems to be the very picture of stable, Castiel disconnects her from the monitor to take her out of the rig and wheel her inside. 

The ED is busy tonight, especially for the smaller hospital which tends to see less traffic, but the board above the EMS entrance has them assigned to a room regardless. Castiel waves and nods greetings to some of the staff as he and Charlie navigate the stretcher through the main emergency room and down a side hallway. As they’re transferring Mrs. Baxter from the stretcher to the hospital bed, both of their pagers and Castiel’s radio simultaneously activate in an obnoxious clash of beeping sounds and static. 

This far inside the building, the dispatcher’s voice is muffled and broken, but after squelching his pager and dimming the volume on his radio, Castiel’s able to discern that they’re being called to standby at a building fire. 

Distractedly, he gives report to the ED nurse and kisses Mrs. Baxter goodbye on the cheek—as annoying as she might be, she’s basically family for how often Castiel sees her—and wishes her luck. Charlie replenishes their supplies and grabs a printout from registration for Castiel’s chart while he heads outside and clarifies with dispatch who is needed on the incoming call. 

The (somewhat dramatic) bottom line is _—everyone_ is needed. This is a multi-story blaze in an abandoned industrial building on the south side of town. There are reports of homeless encampments inside the building, which will need to be checked for and cleared by the firefighters. Only one victim, a night security guard with complaints of difficulty breathing after smoke inhalation, has been reported. Several fire companies are already on their way, and Medic One, staffed with Jody and Kaia tonight, is clearing from Central and enroute to the scene. 

Castiel puts Medic Two responding as Charlie gets them back out on the road, flipping on their lights and sirens and putting the pedal to the floor. Over text message, Jody and Castiel decide to request two other ambulances from the county to come and assist. There’s always a possibility they won’t need them, but it’s always better to have too many hands and send them home than to have too many patients and not enough help. 

At the very least, this looks to be an all-night sort of fire and one of their trucks will be grounded at the scene, unable to leave, overseeing both firefighter rehab and any necessary patient triage. Better to have the option of additional transport trucks.

Once all of that’s decided, there’s nothing to do but get there and listen to status updates over the radio as they drive.

_So much for poker night,_ Castiel thinks dejectedly. He knows he shouldn’t be petulant. After all, this is his _job_ and he and Dean had a wonderful weekend together. But Dean’s been short with him over text messages tonight, not the warm and affectionate version of the man Castiel’s become spoiled with lately. He scrolls through their texting thread anyway and sends off a, _“Be careful,”_ message that he doubts Dean will even see. In fact, Dean may already be packed up and inside the burning building, since his station is right down the street. 

Earlier, Castiel had become worried that Dean’s distant attitude meant he was dropping, but they’d both been busy enough that a physical check-in was out of the question. Castiel’s learned from his past mistakes though, so after transferring care of one of his previous patients, he’d stepped around the side of Central’s ER for some privacy to call him up before putting the truck back in service. Upon hearing Dean’s voice, Castiel could tell that wasn’t the case, and that, at least, was a relief. Something still seemed _off_ about him, though, and whatever it was, Dean wasn’t sharing. 

The twisted knot in his stomach has Castiel fairly certain of what it _is_ about, though, and it’s not something that can be fixed over text or phone call. Part of him is remorseful, thinking that if he could rewind time and do this afternoon over, he _would—_ he regrets letting fear control his response to Dean now—but another part of him is irritated. _Dean_ could certainly say something, too, instead of pulling this passive-aggressive bullshit Castiel thought they were long past. 

It’s a sore enough subject that he hasn’t really _tried_ to make amends (or plans to make amends) over text, because if Dean is going to play games, Castiel’s not going to make it easy for him to do so. That doesn’t mean he isn’t worried as hell about Dean’s well-being, though. 

The box-frame ambulance turns onto the darkened side street housing the building they’re headed for a little roughly, with Charlie grimacing apologetically as the truck bounces from side to side, trying to right itself. Grumbling, Castiel grabs onto the handle above his head so that he doesn’t get tossed into the window and narrows his eyes at her before focusing them out on the scene ahead. 

The night is dark but the sky is almost glowing with the way the fire has engulfed the back half of the top floor of the sprawling building. It’s big—three stories and spanning a good third of the block in width. Castiel recognizes it to be a now-defunct battery manufacturing company with questionable scruples; the locals say the groundwater within a mile each direction is permanently tainted from their activities, but no one seems to know if that’s actually true. Regardless, the inside is full of everything from giant smelters to various production machinery to empty corporate offices. It’s going to be an absolute _nightmare_ to control and clear. 

On the plus side, it’s a new enough building that it should have sprinklers, though Castiel guesses they’re likely partially defunct from lack of maintenance. Perhaps they’ve been able to keep the flames contained somewhat, maybe that’s why it appears only the back corner of the top floor is on its way to fully engulfed. 

There are tons of assorted firetrucks lining the streets; engines and ladders and at least one rescue, and as such, there’s charged and leaking five-inch hose line everywhere. Castiel follows the direction of a police officer—Donna—wearing a reflective vest and waving him through a particular path to the heart of the whole scene. On the other side of the street, safe from being parked in by apparatus and gear, Castiel clocks Medic One parked with their flashers on and back doors open. Inside, Jody and Kaia are visibly working on a patient.

They must have plans to transport, which is why Donna is stranding Medic Two in the middle of the fray. Castiel sighs and reluctantly gets on the radio to assume EMS command; they’re stuck here for the duration, now. It’s not long before his phone is buzzing in his pocket—Jody, confirming his suspicions—Medic One is going to Central with the smoke inhalation guy and then they’ll be back. As he exits the ambulance, Castiel acknowledges both her and Kaia as they wave out the back of their truck before pulling the doors shut. 

While Castiel would love to sweep an eye over the scene, to spend a few moments looking for Dean and his crew just to obtain visual affirmation that he’s okay, there’s no time. Even as Castiel is yanking the side compartment of the rig open and pulling out the fire rehab supplies, more trucks are pulling up to help fight the blaze, which means more people whose health and safety it’s his job to look out for. Sooner rather than later he’s going to need to begin cycling them all through periodic vital sign checks and water breaks; he’s in over his head and hasn’t even started. 

_Better get to work._

The next two hours go by in a blur of blood pressure cuffs and lung sounds, the roar of fire and engines idling, the heavy scent of smoke and sweat mingling in the air. Despite the cold, no one complains or falters; everyone does exactly what they came here to do. Castiel keeps one of the ambulances he requested from the county—a couple of firefighters end up being transported for minor issues, and it’s hard to run a rehab of this size with just two people. 

Eventually, the Red Cross shows up with their own emergency assistance unit, handing out food, hot drinks, and providing a place for people who need it to get warm, which takes _some_ of the burden off of Castiel and his team’s shoulders.

The fire is aggressive, its location in the building making exterior attacks difficult and ultimately ineffective at eliminating the source. Despite multiple hose lines directed at the flames, they just keep coming, keep spreading, eating away at more and more of the building that still isn’t fully cleared. Everyone is weary; some of these firefighters haven’t worked a long-haul scene like this before, but Bobby certainly has. 

As EMS command, Castiel conferred with him briefly earlier, over where Bobby is running things out of his Chief’s vehicle. Many ideas were exchanged, but Bobby made one thing clear—he wants to know if his people are tired, if they’re wearing out. Once the building is confirmed empty and any of the homeless people holed up in there are evacuated, if they can’t get the blaze under control, then Bobby isn’t afraid to let the thing burn. He’ll do that in a heartbeat, rather than risk his people’s health and lives. It’ll be controlled, of course; a surround and drown with continued exterior attacks to prevent the flames from jumping or spreading. At the end of the day, though, that amounts to the same thing—they’ll burn this whole thing to the ground, if that’s what needs to happen. 

Since he’s leading one of the interior attack crews, Castiel sees Dean come through the EMS rehab station several times. Each time, he’s more ornery than the last, snapping at Castiel and barely tolerating having his vital signs taken. The first couple of encounters, Castiel lets him go, doesn’t even address his attitude. Dean is stressed, he’s worried there are still victims inside the building, he’s pissed at having to interrupt his search and rescue for rehab, and he’s pissed at Castiel himself, that much is clear. It’s not hard for Castiel’s cooler head to simply table the entire thing. They’ll work through it tomorrow, when no one’s life is at stake.

But the third time Dean is ordered by Bobby to sit through rehab, he’s an asshole to Charlie, and that’s Castiel’s breaking point. He wouldn’t put up with that behavior from _anyone,_ never mind _Dean,_ who is a leader and owes his entire crew a better example. Never mind what he owes his damn _friendships._

When it happens, Castiel’s across the little circle they’ve created just off the back of the open-doored ambulance, crouched down and taking Garth’s blood pressure. Garth is a new recruit to Dean’s station, a bright, sunny personality that Castiel finds somewhat shocking and better in small doses. But he’s perpetually pleasant, always smiling, so when Castiel glances up from where he’s been focused on the gauge of the cuff to find Garth frowning, he pays attention.

Following Garth’s gaze, he sees Charlie and Dean engaged in a clearly heated discussion, looking over just in time to see Dean _smack_ Charlie’s arm away, snatching and tossing the pulse ox she’s been trying to slide onto his finger to the ground with a worrying crunch. 

“I’m _fine,”_ Dean snaps, and Charlie recoils. 

In an instant, Castiel’s between them, carefully curling an arm around Charlie to push her behind him while he glares down Dean.

“Oh, don’t you start too,” Dean scoffs, throwing his hands up before folding them across his chest, and Castiel has had enough.

“Sidebar,” he growls, curling a hand around Dean’s sweaty, t-shirt-clad bicep, possible since his bunker jacket is currently off and slung over the back of the camp chair he’s been occupying. “Now.” Dean sighs heavily but doesn’t resist as Castiel yanks him roughly around the side of the ambulance, where they have at least some semblance of privacy. “What’s wrong with you?” Castiel demands.

True to form, Dean just rolls his eyes and tightens the way he’s hugging himself, but Castiel detects a flash of— _something_ behind the arrogant facade. They’re at an impasse—Dean’s silent and Castiel’s seriously concerned. A distracted Dean is a reckless Dean, and he can’t send him back into an active fire like _this._ He has two choices right now: get through to Dean, or bench him. While Dean would deserve it, Castiel doesn’t think making him angrier will serve anyone well in the long run, so he softens. “Dean, this isn’t you,” he tries. “Charlie is one of your best friends. At the very least, you owe her an apology. And you owe your work _focus._ ”

“Fine, I’ll apologize,” Dean replies shortly, staring intently at the gold lettering on the side of the truck and not at Castiel at all. 

_Time to bring out the big guns._

“Dean, please,” Castiel says softly, stepping forward into Dean’s space, close enough that their chests are nearly pressed together. “You’re scaring me, this fire is not something to trifle with.” He trails a hand tentatively up Dean’s arm and Dean grumbles a little but dips his head, as close to Castiel as he’s allowed himself to get all night. If Castiel tipped his chin up, he could kiss him. “I understand that you’re off your game, that I made a mistake earlier, that you’re angry with me—”

It’s the wrong thing to say because Dean rips himself away like Castiel _is_ the fire and he’s just remembered that fire burns. “Dean,” Castiel tries, but Dean holds out a hand, _stay back._ His fingers curl into a fist except for one that stays pointed somewhat menacingly in Castiel’s direction. 

“Not everything is about sex and submission,” he says pointedly.

Castiel furrows his brow. “I know that.” 

“Yea,” Dean replies, nodding tightly. “‘Course you do. You know so much about me,” he says, and Castiel can’t figure out whether he sounds more angry or hurt. Neither are good signs. “Just—” Dean ducks his head and shakes himself off. “Lemme do my damn job, Cas.” His radio crackles, and Castiel sees wetness shining in Dean’s eyes. “I gotta go.”

Before Castiel can say another word, Dean is stalking off and taking the rest of his team with him. Castiel _could_ pull rank, could call him back and demand he stay, but he saw Dean’s vitals earlier and there really wasn’t anything concerning. It would be a power move, and one that he has _no_ doubt would go over like a lead brick in a pool. After he wanders back into his makeshift camp and exchanges a look of disbelief with Charlie, Castiel lets Dean go. 

More firefighters cycle in for checks and Castiel goes through the motions, but his mind is elsewhere. He _should_ have proceeded more carefully, should have predicted that Dean would be so sensitive over a perceived rejection. Of _course_ he perceived Castiel’s reply earlier as a rejection. _You idiot,_ Castiel admonishes himself. 

The fact that Dean won’t even give Castiel the opportunity to make it right smarts, but Dean’s mocking of him was fair. Castiel _does_ know Dean that well, and he should have followed his instincts. Bereft over his shitty decisions, Castiel struggles to focus on simple tasks like taking a pulse, never mind paying attention to the fire scene as a whole.

So it takes a moment to register with him when panic erupts over the radio and Charlie rushes to his side to turn the volume dial at Castiel’s hip up so they can listen in. The ominous sounds of multiple emergency buttons activating drown out all other noise as several hand radios war for air priority, waiting for the dispatch center to decide who to give it to. Charlie’s nails dig into his bicep, pinpricks of pain keeping him grounded amidst the crashing sounds and screams echoing over everyone’s handhelds. 

When the words hitting his ears finally begin to make sense, Castiel goes numb from head to toe, unable to feel his limbs any longer as he struggles to process what’s happening.

“ _Structural collapse second floor… backdraft… multiple firefighters down… trapped… no visual... RIT team activation... “_

All around him, firefighters are jumping into motion, swarming the building with all sorts of rescue gear and intent. Bobby is yelling, Castiel can hear him without aid of the radio, while the whole world seems to grind into slow motion. Only one thing really sticks in Castiel’s mind, and that’s Garth’s voice filtering over the wire through the chaos.

_“Firefighter down! Lieut—Dean, Dean Winchester, he fell through the floor, Bobby! He fell through the fucking floor!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: no spoilers this week ;)
> 
> but don't panic! I promise this will be satisfying and not awful.
> 
> the ONLY thing I will spoil is that *no one* is dropping! Dean was not lying—his irritation has nothing to do with sex or BDSM. :-P 
> 
> I will also say that we have about 3-4 chapters to go now, and there are plenty of good things ahead, so stay in your seats! :-P


	11. The Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The words die in Dean’s throat, not because he’s afraid to say them, not because he’s unsure about his place in Cas’ heart, but simply because it hurts. This shouldn’t be how this goes down for them, not after everything they’ve been through and all they’ve overcome. Cas deserves flowers and candles and a carefully curated, emotionally charged mixtape—all that girly shit Dean secretly likes too. He deserves Dean in a collar and on his knees and—and fuck, a goddamn ring, a house in the ‘burbs and their whole lives in front of them._
> 
> _Not here. Not like this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to the wonderful @MalMuses and @coinofstone for editing until this made sense!!
> 
> Chapter warnings (THESE CONTAIN SPOILERS):  
> being trapped, fire, near-death experiences, discussion about dying, medical procedures, injuries, ambulance and ICU settings, grief/trouble coping.
> 
> This is going to be the only chapter without sexytimes, apologies, I promise to make it up to y'all. ;) their trip to the club IS coming!

There’s a strange pressure around Dean’s face when he begins to come to, eyes blinking slowly, lids sticking together somewhat before he manages to get them all the way open. For a moment, he can’t figure out for the life of him where the fuck he _is._ Last Dean remembers, he was at Cas’ place. They were fucking and cooking and being pretty disgustingly domestic together—Dean had been thinking it was a good thing he had to go to work, otherwise he might’ve developed a cavity for all the _sweetness_ passing between them. 

Lifting a hand to his face, Dean realizes he’s looking through dirty, smudged plastic, up at a fire-rated glove. He closes his eyes for an extended minute, and then it _all_ comes flooding back. Not just searching the building and _finally_ stumbling upon the homeless encampment initially reported to be there. Not just the fire and how the floor had shivered before collapsing completely underneath him. Not just the way he’d strained his arms tossing that unconscious, presumably homeless teenager to safety in Benny’s arms before the fire sucked him down, but everything _before_ that.

Arguably, recovering the memory of Cas awkwardly dodging his question—when both of them knew _full well_ what Dean was asking about—hurts a hell of a lot more than the fiery plunge into the burning depths of the warehouse. 

Groaning, Dean tries to rub at his face before abruptly being reminded that he’s wearing an SCBA mask, the thing responsible for piping in the fresh(ish) air he’s currently still breathing. As if on cue, the little alarm that monitors the level in his air tank begins beeping in Dean’s ear. He hits the button to silence it—it’s not like there’s anything he can do about that now. Either he has enough air left until he’s rescued, or he doesn’t.

Above him, the hole he came through isn’t even visible anymore, the entire floor caved in directly over Dean’s head and creating a hovel of broken concrete, pipes, and ductwork. The dust hasn’t even fully settled, so he can’t have been down here that long. On the other hand, the throbbing in his head tells Dean the helmet he’s wearing didn’t completely protect him from knocking it but good, so who the hell knows?

As he glances around and takes stock, Dean’s budding fear begins to compound. With everything collapsed in around him, there’s no way to identify which wall is which, and if Dean remembers correctly, he and his team weren’t even searching _in_ a room that was bordered by an exterior wall. 

He might be in some real trouble, here.

The visible flames are weak, which is a small miracle. They’re busy at the edges of the room, eating up some of the insulation and drywall packed into the rubble above Dean’s head and piled to his left. The result is a low-level glow that at least allows him to see at all, but Dean’s not soothed—those flames are only going to get bigger, and like he’s experienced so many times in the burn building, concrete holds heat like an oven. He’ll cook to death if he stays put, and that’s if he doesn’t run out of clean air to breathe first. 

Wincing, Dean pushes up on the assortment of debris and more broken concrete that he’s landed on, fumbling around and struggling until he’s finally sitting up. In the process, Dean cries out in surprise pain not once, but twice. The first happens when he puts pressure on his left hand (his wrist, he’s pretty sure), the second when he tries to move his left leg. Safe to say, that side of his body must have taken the brunt of his fall. 

_Great. That’s just great._

His vantage point from sitting upright isn’t much better, unfortunately, but it does give Dean access to the portable radio clipped to his pants that he was previously laying on. Cradling his injured arm across his lap, Dean grimaces as he uses his sore fingers to tug off the glove that’s on his right hand, so that he can reach across his body and work the radio’s controls. The first thing he does is to activate his panic button, a little orange circle on the top of the radio that will—theoretically, if he’s not out of signal range—temporarily truncate other transmissions so that he can get through. 

When he does, a whole lot of _nothing_ happens, and it takes Dean a few seconds to realize that his volume is flipped all the way down. As soon as he twists the dial to turn it up, the air in the increasingly stifling room is filled with the end of the emergency notification, and then, relievedly, Bobby’s anxious voice.

“Dean! Boy, you better come in right now and tell me you’re alright.” 

Clearing his throat a little, Dean’s oddly thankful that Bobby can’t see the way tears well up in his eyes at the familiar sound of his surrogate father speaking. Shaking it off, he squeezes the button on the mic clipped to his shoulder to open the channel. “Can’t get rid of me that easily, old man,” he retorts, though his snappy comeback comes out far less cocky than Dean was hoping. 

“Thank God for that,” Bobby replies, and then there’s a muffled exchange Dean can’t quite make out in the background, though he strains to hear. “Noted,” Bobby says, to whoever is beside him and then, “Dean, go to Four, will you?”

With practiced fingers, Dean switches from the Fire Ops channel he’s utilizing to the more private one Bobby requested, presumably so that communication about the active fire scene can continue on the main band. When he gets there, though, Dean wastes no time in attempting to gauge the severity of his situation more fully. “C’mon, Bobby,” Dean demands with a sniff. “Don’t keep me in the dark. How bad is it?”

There’s a brief pause and then, “We’re working on it, Dean. There are two teams on their way to you, both coming from different directions, but—it’s complicated.” Bobby hesitates. “Lot of rubble we can’t clear out of the way. Plus, where you are, it’s just not as simple as blowing a hole in the wall and pulling you out.” His unfortunate location aside, Dean understands the logistical struggle all too well, in a way he maybe wishes he didn’t. Bottom line: the building’s integrity is deteriorating by the minute. Taking out a wall could bury both Dean _and_ the entire rescue team. But that doesn’t mean he can’t fight his own way out. 

“Bobby,” Dean says. “I got a wall here, has huge lettering on it. Says, “LR-12”, any idea if that’s useful?” 

“Standby, Dean. Hey—how’re you on oxygen?” 

This time it’s Dean’s turn to hesitate, eventually deciding that there’s no need to worry Bobby more. “‘M alright. Just… I shouldn’t waste it.” All Dean hears in reply is a huff and a swear that’s probably going to earn Bobby a reprimand from the Commissioners for saying it over the radio, but it’s doubtful Bobby gives a rat’s ass. More to the point, imagining Bobby chewing that group of balding suits out for bitching about language while he was busy trying to save Dean’s life is funny as hell.

All too quickly, Dean’s smile fades away again. The silence that fills the room while he waits for Bobby’s voice to return is more ominous now, increasingly hot and filled with the determined crackling of a fire that’s got a mind of its own. 

Left alone with his thoughts, Dean can’t help but let his own mind wander, and it goes where it always goes, like a moth to a flame. _Cas._ Despite everything, Dean still loves him. And even though Cas hurt his feelings earlier, Dean regrets being such a dick to him about it. If the way Bobby is _not_ talking is anything to go by, that shitty interaction might end up being the _last_ one he ever has with Castiel. Might be the way Castiel will be stuck remembering him for the rest of his life, and Dean can’t _believe_ he left it the way that he did.

_That’s morbid._

_That’s life._

Dean barks a depressed little laugh, raising his watery eyes to the wrecked ceiling and blinking wildly until tears track down his cheeks on the inside of his mask. 

_Cas._

All of Dean’s reasons for staying silent, for _not_ sharing his true feelings, seem so fucking stupid now. He’s going to die here, in this goddamn dirty hovel, without ever telling the love of his life that that’s what he is. 

At the end of the day, Dean is pretty damn sure of what Cas feels, but that’s irrelevant, isn’t it? Dean could have been the bigger person in all of this, just as easily. Could have been the one to go out on that limb, instead of waiting in the wings like a coward. 

_Let’s be real,_ Dean thinks. A person can worry or they can act, and he’s _always_ been a _doer._ Not a “sit around and drown in his feelings” kind of douche, but here he fuckin’ is. Looking back, Dean wishes more than anything that he’d been better than that. That he’d taken what he learned so painstakingly over the last few months, through BDSM and with Cas as his Dom, and applied it to their relationship as a whole. It seems so obvious in retrospect—everything he’s practiced so faithfully as a submissive—all that open communication and building of trust—he should have run with it. 

Cas ain’t off the hook, either, not in Dean’s mind. He could have done that shit too, that’s for damn sure.

Both of them are idiots, that’s what Dean thinks. If he ever gets out of here, the _first_ thing he’s going to do is—

“Dean, you there?” Bobby’s back, and he sounds friggin’ excited, which perks Dean up immediately and helps him refocus. Parts of the precariously-stacked rubble are starting to crack and shift, and Dean’s no stranger to this part of a working fire. Sooner rather than later, this whole room is going to cave in. 

“I’m here, Chief,” Dean replies reflexively. As he does, his eye is caught by a particularly large concrete beam that appears to be holding up most of the rest. It’s probably the reason he isn’t already buried, but it also has a worryingly aggressive stress fracture creeping down its middle that’s only getting wider by the minute. 

“Good catch on that wall, boy. There’s a couple like it in the building, but we’re gonna make a best guess as to which one you’re near. Can you get over to it? There should be a door in the northwest corner, and if you can get through it, it’ll take you farther away from the main blaze. Buy the boys some time to get to you.” 

“Roger,” Dean acknowledges, feeling slightly more hopeful now that they have a plan, tenuous as it may be. Dean’s not a quitter, he’s not just going to lay down and die. Hell no, he’s going to fight with everything he has to survive—this and any other crazy thing God or Fate or whatever sees fit to throw his way. All the same, though… Dean stops right before starting to drag himself over towards the wall and presses the mic’s “talk” button again, licking his dry lips before speaking. “Bobby,” he says. “Sam?”

“I called him,” Bobby replies gruffly, and of course, he knows Dean all too well. “He was over at Central, he’s on his way. Should be here soon.” In equal measure, that knowledge fills Dean with both relief and dread. If this rescue mission fails, he _wants_ to be able to talk to Sam one last time, but on the other hand—

“Bobby, you gotta promise me, something goes wrong, you keep Sam away. Don’t let him see—” Dean breaks off mid-sentence, choking on his own words. 

“Boy, I’m gonna smack you silly for even talkin’ that way once your ass is free,” Bobby growls back, but Dean can hear the edge marring his voice too. He softens then, and that scares Dean more than anything else has yet. “You just worry about you, Dean, and I’ll—I’ll take care of Sam.” There’s so much stuffed into that promise that it would break Dean if he let himself think about it too much, so instead, he lets go of the mic and gets to work. 

Cramming his hand back into his glove, Dean leans onto his right hip (the good one) and starts pulling himself across the floor. It’s awkward and difficult and it’s slower than he’d like, but Dean doesn’t stop. Pushing with his good foot and reaching out with his good hand to pull, steadily Dean propels himself forward. It’s rough going, and he has to use both injured limbs more than is tolerable, but there’s no alternative. 

There’s no door, either. Dean knew that as soon as Bobby mentioned it. It’s either not there or covered by rubble, either way, it’s of no use to him. He’ll just have to find another way, and if he can’t go around, then _through it is._ Well, he’s always been a “to the point” kind of dude, so why not?

When he gets to the wall, Dean takes a break for a moment, leaning against it and breathing heavily, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain coursing through his body. Because he doesn’t have enough going on, the alarm on his tank picks that moment to begin sounding again, and this is it, this is his last warning. His oxygen is nearly out. With any luck, the room on the other side of this one will be slightly less hazardous. If not, Dean’s done for.

Running a gloved hand over the smooth surface, Dean finds a crack in the drywall, picking and then yanking until a chunk comes free. Underneath is concrete cinderblock—not a surprise considering the state of the rest of the room. Biting his lip, Dean looks around frantically for anything he can use, and comes up with a busted section of pipe. He’s broken through cinderblock before in drills, but always with _real_ tools, like crowbars and sledgehammers. Also, he had two working arms, which Dean can’t believe how much he’s taken for granted. 

_Never again._

He’s got no choice but to work with what’s in front of him though, if he wants to survive. 

Bracing himself for the onslaught of pain, Dean picks up the broken pipe and holds it firmly in both hands. Taking a deep breath, he slams it into the block and rears back to go again before the jagged bolts of lightning-hot pain ripping up his arm can really sink in. 

_Again._ He brings the pipe down over and over and _over_ and miraculously, the cinderblock steadily chips away.

_It’s working._

Tears stream freely down Dean’s cheeks, his left arm so sore that it’s practically numb and his right not all that much better. Still, Dean doesn’t stop. With repeated, unrelenting blows landed one after another, he manages to break a hole through the wall, and to hack away at it until it’s nearly big enough to fit through. 

With a gasp that’s partially from pain and equally from lack of oxygen, Dean tosses the pipe aside and resorts to using his hands to pull away chunks of rock. When the space is finally big enough for him to crawl through, Dean unclips his airpack and lets it fall from his shoulders, ripping his helmet off and tossing it through the hole. His hood and mask follow, throwing them through carelessly, but he leaves his pack behind. It’s no use to him anymore, it’s heavy, and he’s exhausted. 

Steadying himself, Dean tries to prepare for what might be on the other side—life or death; this is the moment of truth.

He crawls through, bad leg snagging on the cinderblock and making him yell out, but he makes it. On the other side, there’s about a foot and a half drop to the floor, but it’s _much_ cooler and _much_ clearer in here. The air is less heavy, more breathable, and the room is much wider than the space in which Dean was trapped, so it’ll take longer to become smothering. Dean uses the adrenaline he’s built up from hacking through the wall to buoy him forward, dragging his body as fast as it will go across the space, as far away from the blaze as he can get.

Just as he reaches the middle of the room, Dean hears an ominous creaking noise from behind him. He reacts just in time to look over his shoulder and see through the hole he came through that the hovel has collapsed in on itself. Dean’s mouth goes dryer than it already was, uncomfortable with how close he came to being buried alive. 

Breath coming fast and short now, Dean gets on the radio again. “Bobby,” he croaks. “I’m through. I’m through but—it’s spreading fast. I dunno how long I’ll be safe here.” 

Looking around, Dean registers yet another disappointing, windowless space. There’s one double door at the far end, but Dean’s fairly certain that’s the direction the epicenter of blaze lies. He thinks he might be in a basement, which is _really_ a worst-case scenario, and likely why Bobby hasn’t suggested he access those doors at all. There may not _be_ any way for him to go here that doesn’t lead directly into a fully-engulfed fire. He has to ask, though. “Should I—should I try the doors?”

“No,” Bobby replies sharply, his voice slightly staticky now. Radio signal must be weaker here. “Dean, I’ve got the blueprints for the building in front of me—do not go through those doors. Just—sit tight, alright, son? Don’t—don’t you be giving up on me yet.” That spiel would have been a hell of a lot more convincing if Bobby bothered to take his finger off of the mic before barking, “Get Cas,” at someone in the background. Dean’s heart sinks. 

_Bobby thinks he’s going to die. Bobby wants him to be able to say his goodbyes._

A normal person would probably panic, and Dean knows he should, but he’s too damn exhausted, in too much pain, and so _broken_ about everything he’s about to lose. It hurts like hell to think that he’ll never wake up in Cas’ arms again, never see Sammy’s smile when he cracks a joke at Dean’s expense, never get to know the joys of being an uncle—or a dad. 

Devastated, Dean lies flat on his back on the dirty concrete floor, doing his best to breathe shallowly and to stay as low as possible, away from the rising smoke and heat. A single tear makes its way down his cheek and into his sweaty hair, and Dean doesn’t bother to wipe it away. What does it matter, now? For the first time in what suddenly feels like one _very_ short life, Dean prays—begs—to a God he’s never felt was listening. 

_Please don’t let me die here._

The radio clip on his shoulder crackles to life once again and Dean tips his head, prepared to listen to whatever crap news Bobby has to share. But the voice that comes over the line has him pressing a fist to his forehead, eyes pinching shut against the burning pressure behind them. He swallows hard against the lump in his throat and it goes down like needles. 

“Dean? Dean, it’s me,” the familiar gravelly voice says, and Dean nearly chokes trying to reply, struggling so much that it takes him nearly three tries to get a single word out. 

“Hey, sunshine,” is what Dean finally manages, trying hard not to sound anywhere near as wrecked as he feels. “What—what’s the weather like where you are? Me, I’m in a bit of a heatwave. Could do with some rain.” 

“Oh, Dean,” Castiel replies, huffing a reluctant laugh, and Dean can just picture him, clutching the mic like a lifeline, like he can grab Dean through it if he holds on tight enough. Such a _Cas_ thing to do that the mental image actually makes Dean smile. He really is the light of Dean’s entire fucking life, and—oh. _Oh,_ _shit._ He _can’t_ go out like this, not without letting Cas know. Maybe that’s not fair, not a _nice_ burden to rest on Castiel’s shoulders, but Dean’s the one about to be cut down in his early thirties, so fuck _fairness._

“Cas, I gotta tell you something,” Dean starts, releasing the mic for a second so that Castiel can acknowledge that he’s listening, that he can hear. Wouldn’t it be just Dean’s luck that he finds the stones to confess his stupid feelings, and the damn radio cuts out? 

“No,” Castiel replies, and Dean frowns, trying to press his mic’s button but Cas is still talking, the stubborn asshole. “I owe you an apology, Dean. I owe you—”

“Holy shit,” Dean murmurs to himself as he can hear Castiel near-sobbing and trying to gain control of his speech on the other end. He finds himself clutching his own radio just as tightly as he was previously making fun of Cas in his head for doing. 

“Dean, I didn't mean to add to your distress today,” Castiel continues, teetering on the edge of hysterical. “I—Dean, I just keep failing. Again and again. When you were dropping, I searched high and low and I couldn't find you. And then I screwed up with our aftercare, put you at risk, dropped on my own watch, and you bore the brunt of that fallout. And I just wanted—I _needed_ to do this right, for this next step between us to be a _win_ for you. For myself. For _us._ ”

He pauses, must let his finger slip off the mic, and Dean quickly jumps in. “You think you're the only one rolling snake eyes here? Cas, hello? Look where I am.” Dean can almost _hear_ Castiel’s eyes rolling, and it makes him smile again, despite the circumstances. He sighs, leaving the button pressed so Castiel can hear him do so. “I shouldn’t have put you on the spot. I’m sorry. Or hell, you know what? I _should_ have, but only if I had the balls to put myself out there too. And I’m not—I’m not gonna just... _let_ this be it for us, not without—”

The words die in Dean’s throat, not because he’s afraid to say them, not because he’s unsure about his place in Cas’ heart, but simply because it _hurts._ This shouldn’t be how this goes down for them, not after everything they’ve been through and all they’ve overcome. Cas deserves flowers and candles and a carefully curated, emotionally charged mixtape—all that girly shit Dean secretly likes too. He deserves Dean in a collar and on his knees and—and _fuck,_ a goddamn ring, a house in the ‘burbs and their whole lives in front of them.

Not _here._ Not like this.

Life’s shitty like that though, sometimes. Dean should have known better than to think fate wouldn’t pull the rug out from under them. It was too easy with Cas, too good not to expect they wouldn’t get to keep it. 

“Dean, I love you,” Castiel’s voice crackles over the radio, and Dean bursts into tears, the way his sobs have him sucking in polluted air quickly leading him to cough. “I would have gone with you into that building if I’d known, all the way, please know that. You don’t need to say anything in return, I just—I was going to tell you tonight. It kills me to imagine you—” His voice breaks a little and he struggles not to say what they’re both thinking— _dying._ “—to imagine you not knowing.” 

_This is it._

Fuck what they _should_ have, this is what they get. Dean’s heart is pounding, but he knows this is _right,_ and now that it’s time, he can’t fucking wait to tell Castiel how he really feels. Dragging a dirty sleeve across his face, Dean takes a deep breath and reaches to press the button on the mic once again. 

Nothing happens, it doesn’t even key up.

“No! No, no, no,” Dean mutters, ripping the mic from his jacket and sending the clip flying, but no matter how many times he presses down on the button, it stays silent. The radio doesn’t even beep, the display is dark and lifeless. Looking down, Dean realizes with horror that it’s died, possibly from a drained battery, maybe from damage sustained during his fall. “Oh, _hell_ no,” Dean growls. “This is— _hell_ no.” 

Shoving a hand down into the pocket of the pants he’s wearing beneath his bunker gear, Dean pulls out his phone. Of course it was in his left pocket, likely positioned right beneath his hip when he landed. It’s smashed, only flickering back at him tauntingly with a bunch of colored lines when he tries to turn it on. _Useless._

Whipping his head around, Dean takes stock of his options. There’s really only the one door out, and it’s no secret that it just may lead him out of the frying pan and into the fire, literally. Still, what does he have to lose? If there’s one thing Dean is _not_ going to do, it’s sit here with his busted leg and useless arm, waiting to die. Not when—not when Cas didn’t even get to hear what Dean’s waited goddamn _years_ to say. 

There’s a beat-up metal chair nearby, the kind that looks like it belongs in a school room, and Dean uses it to drag himself to his feet. Once standing, he leans on the back of the chair like a makeshift walker, clinging to it with both good hand and bad so as to put as little weight as possible on his busted leg. There’s no time to crawl, not with the way smoke is pouring through that hole he made in the wall, so Dean limps as quickly as possible towards the door. 

It takes longer than he would have liked to get there, having to stop and breathe through the pain (or crouch down and suck in some less sooty air on occasion). Sweat pours down Dean’s face, makes the clothing underneath his gear sticky and uncomfortable, but that’s the least of his worries. Summoning every ounce of his training, every survival instinct he’s ever had, and all the adrenaline left in his body, Dean shoves the chair and himself forward, one foot in front of the other, until he reaches the door.

Slumping against it in relief, Dean recoils immediately from the heat he feels seeping through the metal. That action sends him off-balance and stumbling, falling heavily to the floor and leaving him sprawled out dramatically. In the chaos, Dean accidentally flings his makeshift walker halfway back to where he came from. He cries out as he lands roughly on his injured leg, tears springing to his eyes involuntarily as he cradles his thigh and rocks until the searing pain abates enough for him to keep a coherent thought in his head. 

The door is scorching hot, and that can mean only one thing—there’s fire directly on the other side, and Dean can’t risk opening it. He could cause a backdraft in the room and be dead within seconds. 

Defeated, Dean slumps the rest of the way to the ground, letting his head drop back onto the concrete and staring up into the increasingly dense smog swirling above. The warm glow of the flames from the other room reflecting off the smoke reminds him of one particular Fourth of July—feels like a hundred years ago now—just him, Sam, and some fireworks. Dean had saved up a little money from his after school job and gone without eating much more than dry cereal for the week just to get them, but the look on Sam’s face had made it all _so_ worth it. 

As Dean slowly lifts his eyelids, the time between their fully opening grows longer and longer from blink to blink. In between, he can almost _see_ the memory playing out in front of him. Feels like he’s _in it,_ like he’s really there.

“Sammy,” he says softly, turning his head to the side and smiling down at his kid brother, who grins back happily. 

“Come on Dean!” Sam takes off running across the open field, racing to set off more exploding rockets. Dean follows behind, even though—even though there’s _something_ he’s supposed to be doing, he’s sure of it—but there’s no pain here, no worries, no tightness in his chest and no rising fear. The grass feels soft beneath his feet and the air is cool, crisp.

Just as Dean is about to call out for his little brother to wait up, there’s a loud explosion to his right that doesn’t sound at _all_ like a firework. No, this explosion sounds like rock crumbling, metal screeching, and— _people yelling?_

Dean snaps his eyes open, whips his head to the side, and sees the most relieving sight he’s ever laid eyes on. A handful of firefighters equipped with a Reeves stretcher, all of them packed up and making their way towards him. _Is he dreaming?_ Weakly, Dean blinks against the tears and stinging smoke in his eyes, reaches up and pinches his own cheek. The action hurts his wrist as much as it hurts his cheek, so he decides he’s alive. 

A firefighter with a white helmet, piercing light blue eyes, and a _very_ familiar gait crouches down by Dean’s head and cups the side of his face. “Good to see you, brotha,” Benny manages, and while they’ll likely never talk about it, Dean can _hear_ the relief in his voice, the stress of whatever he’s been through over the last hour making it break. He grabs Benny’s hand on his face and holds on, nodding but not trusting himself to speak. “Let’s get you outta here.” 

“My leg,” Dean finally says, as one of the other guys slips an oxygen mask over his face and the rest of them open and spread out the collapsible plastic stretcher next to his body. “Think it’s broke. Wrist too.”

“Shit, if that’s all that fall did you, I’d say you got someone lookin’ out for you upstairs. Now don’t talk anymore, cher, you got soot all over your nose and mouth. Your throat hurt? Just nod, yes or no.”

Dean nods “yes” and Benny claps him on the shoulder, standing and turning away to speak into the mic on his shoulder. “My radio. My helmet,” Dean whispers, pointing over his head to where he tossed those items, not bothering to mention his air pack still in the other room—that thing is toast. As he does, the crew rolls Dean onto his side, shoves the Reeves underneath, and rolls him back. 

Being tipped onto his bad leg makes Dean grimace and grit his teeth, but he doesn’t say a word about it. Within seconds, he’s being lifted into the air and carried through the gaping hole Benny and co made in the wall with their tools. Strangely, Dean is kind of jealous—punching through walls is a good time, one of his favorite things to do. At least, when he’s not trapped and trying to create an emergency exit _or_ working against the clock to rescue a good friend and co-worker, anyway. Maybe Dean will just not ever mention that thought out loud.

The adjacent room is yet another windowless space, but Benny’s team walks across it confidently now that they have Dean in tow between them. Right next to him, Benny’s talking away on the radio, and if Dean had to make a best guess, he’s giving Bobby a countdown to starting surround and drown ops. Surround and drown means they’re done trying to save the building—as soon as Dean and his rescue team are clear, the pump-equipped fire apparatus will circle it and dump continuous streams of water from above until the fire is out. 

From his position on the stretcher, Dean’s truly starting to struggle to breathe, but he keeps quiet about it. There’s nothing his crew can do but get him out of here, and they’re all moving as fast as they can. Instead of dwelling on the tightness in his chest, the sharp soreness in his throat, the wheeze even he can hear when he exhales, Dean looks around and watches the scenery.

He was right about being in a basement, so he couldn’t have tunneled his way to safety if he tried. The door they pass through in the second room has broken chains, and Benny picks up bolt cutters from the floor as they pass. All that considered, Dean guesses he wouldn’t have faired very well on his own here, either, even if he had managed to break through a second wall. After those doors there’s a turn, a hallway, another hallway, and finally, a staircase that leads to— _fucking finally_ —an exterior door with a glowing red “EXIT” sign above it. 

Benny’s team carries Dean up the stairs.

One level up and what feels like halfway down the block from where Dean was trapped, the air seems clear and everything is wet, the walls still actively dripping with water. Vaguely, Dean contemplates if the damage is from the fire department or from the sprinklers, and then immediately wonders why he can’t turn off his work-brain. 

“Stop,” Benny orders his crew. “Let’s get him out of this gear before we head outside. Things are gonna get crazy fast, I don’t wanna be taking off bunkers in the back of the rig. I have blankets to cover him.” As the guys lower Dean to the ground, Benny shoots him a meaningful look, and Dean realizes he’s trying to help him retain his dignity. 

Benny was right to worry, though—getting Dean out of his jacket, boots, and fire-rated pants is difficult, and he screams more than once from pain. They move quickly out of necessity, they aren’t incredibly gentle, and by the time Dean is down to his duty pants and a t-shirt, he’s shivering and tears are leaking from his eyes _again._ Defensively, Dean cradles his arm to his chest.

“Alrigh’, cher, you’re alrigh’ now,” Benny soothes, draping several hospital blankets over his shaking body, which Dean knows full well aren’t going to do much for him out in the cold, especially with the way his skin is damp all over from sweat. “Boys, get him to the rig quickly, we don’t need to be adding hypothermia to Dean’s list of troubles.” 

There’s a low murmur of acknowledgement and then the Reeves stretcher is being picked up again, the doors to the outside creaking as they’re pushed open and Dean is carried through. 

The air is _frigid,_ colder than Dean remembers it being before, and his shivering ramps up immediately. Beneath the oxygen mask, Dean’s teeth chatter and he struggles to take in a deep breath, the rapid shift in temperature more painful to his throat and lungs than relieving. When he opens his mouth to say so, his words come out in nothing but a croak and then a pained moan. 

There’s some kind of yelling commotion up ahead of them, as Dean’s carried down the length of the building towards the street where everyone is parked. Unfortunately, the way Dean’s positioned, he can only look at where they’ve come from, not where they’re headed. That makes it difficult to see what’s going on, but he cranes his neck and tries his best, nonetheless. 

His eyes still bleary and stinging, Dean has to blink several times before the line of people gathered at the marked edge of the scene comes into any kind of focus. It does, just in time for Dean to see Castiel break through and come running towards them at full speed. Not even thinking about what he’s doing, Dean immediately responds by sitting up and trying to stand. _That_ results in a predictable rush of, “Whoa, whoa there,”s, and other well-intended nonsense that’s aimed at trying to stabilize the swaying and tilting stretcher _and_ get Dean to lay back down, none of which he pays any attention to. 

It only takes Castiel maybe thirty seconds to reach them, but by then the guys have given up on fighting Dean. They lower the Reeves to the ground, muttering about how Cas is a medic anyway, and take the free moment to pull off their masks and breathe the fresh air. 

“Cas,” Dean croaks, failing to get to his feet but not needing to because Castiel skids to a stop in the mud and crashes to his knees at Dean’s side. Dean’s throat hurts like a _bitch,_ he’s shaking from head to toe, and his breath is coming short and sharp against his ribs, but he’s _not_ going to lose out on this again. _Not again._ Throwing his arms around Castiel’s neck, Dean drags him in close, basking in the solid, warm weight of his body, the thump of Cas’ heartbeat in his chest, his own harsh and jagged breaths puffing right next to Dean’s ear.

“I love you,” Dean says plainly, though his voice is hoarse and scratchy and a cough stops him from saying it again right away. He hacks into his fist over Castiel’s shoulder while Cas thumps at his back and grips him like he can’t bear to let go. 

“Oh my god, his breathing,” comes a familiar voice from above them, and Dean glances up to see Charlie looking down worriedly. “Cas, can’t you hear—”

“I _know,_ Charlie,” Castiel says sharply, squeezing Dean one last time before pulling back and cupping his face. “Dean,” he says seriously. “We need to get you to the truck, and then Jody and I are going to put you under and put a tube down your throat. If we don’t do it quickly, things could go very badly for you. Understand?” While he talks, Castiel rocks back on his heels, motioning for the firefighters to pick Dean up again, but keeping his big, warm hand on Dean’s face, right next to the oxygen mask, as they do. 

Dean’s eyes widen, he can’t help it, and he starts to shake his head, _no, no,_ he can’t— _anything_ but that—

But Castiel slides his hand back around Dean’s head as they walk, tightens his grip on Dean’s hair. “Listen to me,” he says fiercely. “I will _not_ lose you again. Let me help you Dean, so you can—” Castiel breaks off and swallows roughly, only glancing away for a second to compose himself. “So you can tell me what you just said every damn day until you finally get sick of me.” 

The panic in Dean’s chest starts to subside, and he nods, though his teeth still chatter in the cold.

“Also, fair warning, Sam is here. He’s in the rig, setting up. You’ll be in good hands.” 

Dean raises his eyebrows to protest but Castiel just shrugs, reading him easily. “It’s not like any of us were going to opt out of treating you voluntarily. They didn’t have any luck keeping me away, and they won’t have any with Sam.” Doing his best to relax, Dean stares up at the starlit sky, trying not to worry that he’s going to be put to sleep only to never wake up again. After what he just went through, that’s maybe the _most_ terrifying news he could possibly have gotten. But Cas is right—if Dean’s going to put his life in anyone’s hands, he couldn’t ask for better options, even if they’re both secretly as scared as he is. 

The stars disappear, replaced by hazy ambient flashing red and white lights, and then the ceiling of the ambulance as Dean is loaded inside. Sam’s face appears upside down in front of him and Dean does his best to smile weakly, though his wheezy breathing is really taking its toll. 

“Don’t talk,” Sam says immediately, grabbing Dean’s hand. “One for yes, two for no.” Dean nods. “Cas told you we’re going to put you under, protect your airway?”

_One squeeze._

“Kay,” Sam nods. “Just until the swelling goes down. I’ll be with you the whole time, the ICU nurses are going to _hate_ my guts. I’ll make sure you’re sedated, that you’re not in pain. We’ll pull the tube just as soon as it’s safe, I promise. Dean, I promise. We’re going to get you through this. You with me?” 

_One squeeze._

To Dean’s left, Castiel has a tourniquet around his bicep and is poking around, looking for a place to start an IV. When Dean catches his eye, he winks and slides the needle in like butter, before Dean can even react. With practiced hands, he retracts the needle and adds a saline lock, tapes it down, and starts running some fluid that’s already hanging from the ceiling. Next to him on the bench seat are a neat row of syringes and vials—Sam must have set them up—but Castiel doesn’t touch any of them yet.

“Before I put you out, does anything hurt?”

_One squeeze._

“His left leg,” Castiel interrupts. “Left arm. Anything else?” 

_One squeeze._

“Alright, here,” Sam passes off Dean’s hand to Castiel and then starts touching Dean’s body from head to toe, moving quickly. “Squeeze Cas’ hand when I touch something that hurts.” As Sam works his way down, Dean does as he’s told, almost forgetting to do so at one point because he’s busy staring into Castiel’s eyes, and isn’t _that_ fucking ridiculous. 

Down by Dean’s feet, the doors slam shut and the ambulance rumbles into high idle as Charlie prepares to navigate them away from the scene. 

“Hey, big boy,” Jody’s voice declares brightly, and Dean has never been happier to see her smiling face when she appears above him. Someone in this friggin’ truck should be _not_ closely related to or in love with him, that seems like a smart move. He waves tiredly, and coughs. 

Beside him, Castiel glances at the cardiac monitor Dean’s now hooked up to, and even Dean can understand the threat of his dropping oxygen level—eighty-two percent and holding, not great. When he holds his free arm up, the tips of his fingers look dusky, and it’s not from soot. Castiel sees him looking and squeezes his hand. “It’s time,” he says, and when Dean opens his mouth to try and reply, to do something stupid like blurt out his final goodbyes, Castiel knocks his oxygen mask away to clamp a hand over his mouth. “Don’t you dare,” he warns, stern and fierce, even though his eyes are shining. “Tell me again when you’re better.”

Against Castiel’s palm, Dean coughs avidly until he removes it, swiftly replacing the mask. Sam and Jody switch places, Sam taking his spot at Dean’s head, presumably because he’s the guy that’s going to actually stick the piece of plastic down Dean’s throat. Now there’s a heartwarming, brotherly moment if Dean’s ever seen one. He snorts a little at the thought and promptly regrets it when his airway burns.

Glancing to the side again, Dean sees that Castiel is busy triple checking his syringes and dosages, and Dean takes advantage. He grabs Sam’s arm, tugs it away from where he’s messing in the airway kit. “Sam,” he says, and everyone protests, but Dean holds up a finger and they go silent, very reluctantly. “I love Cas,” he says croakily, with a big grin, pleased that even now, he’s managed to thwart Castiel’s rules.

“Jesus Christ, Dean,” Sam breathes, rolling his eyes and covering Dean’s face with a bag-valve-mask that spews oxygen forcefully. “We _know._ Cas, put him out.” 

Cas’ smile is the last thing Dean remembers seeing before he slips under. What a way to go.

***

_Cas_

Watching Dean’s eyes flutter closed as the first sedative hits his veins is one of the hardest things Castiel has ever had to do, never mind _cause._ He feels Jody’s reassuring hand on his shoulder and nearly lets himself shut his own eyes and lean into it for strength.

“Jody, cricoid pressure,” Sam instructs and Jody’s hand disappears as she complies. She leans down to put pressure on the cartilage rings in Dean’s throat to make it easier for Sam to slide a tube between his vocal cords. Sam doesn’t compress the ventilation bag he’s holding, just lets the high-flow O2 do its thing, since Dean is still breathing on his own. While he’s not practiced working in a bumpy, swaying ambulance like this, the procedure is still something Sam has clearly done hundreds of times, and Castiel is _glad_ he’s here. _So_ glad, otherwise he’d have to use his own brain and that’s—well, Castiel’s brain is not one hundred percent online at the moment. 

“Cas,” Sam snaps, and when Castiel looks up, he gets the sense it’s not the first time Sam has called his name.

“I’m with you,” he replies quickly as Sam looks on uncertainly, hand poised over the Mac 4 blade he’s picked out to intubate Dean with. Sam knows Castiel’s lying, knows he shouldn’t be anywhere near Dean’s medical care right now, but needs must, and EMS is always about doing the best you can with what little you have. Always about saving lives and making things happen _despite_ your own feelings or a lack of other people to rely on. 

After a fleeting, scrutinizing second, Sam nods, back to business. “Give that lidocaine. There’s one hundred and twenty milligrams drawn up, check it if you want. I don’t know how hard Dean hit his head, but I’m not taking any chances. Go ahead and flush once that’s in, then give the Etomidate right after. I started with thirty and we’ll switch to Ketamine if needed. Let’s see if we can avoid paralytics.” 

“Do you want to switch?” Jody asks quietly, and Castiel sincerely considers it, but shakes his head ‘no’ in the end. As hard as this might be, relinquishing Dean’s care fully is harder. If nothing else, Castiel can take comfort in the fact that he’s _doing_ something, that he’s actively keeping Dean alive. He gives the medications Sam requested, making sure to push the etomidate slowly so as not to lock up Dean’s jaw and induce the need for a paralytic. It’s an easy order to carry out, because Sam drew both that and the lidocaine up earlier, along with a few others, just in case. _Any_ other time and Castiel would refuse to give something someone else prepared, but these aren’t exactly normal circumstances, and Sam’s stakes in this might be even higher than his own. The bubble they’re in right now is just that.

The ambulance hits a bump as it turns, sirens wailing in the background that Castiel barely hears. He sees Dean’s stats on the monitor changing, watches him go even more floppy and lifeless than he was previously, watches as Sam springs into action when he does. Smoothly, with practiced hands, Sam opens Dean’s mouth and slides the lighted blade inside, sweeping Dean’s tongue up and out of the way. He uses the handle of the blade to lift Dean’s jaw from the inside, opening up his airway structures so they can be visualized when Sam bends to look into his mouth. 

Castiel winces, despite having performed the same procedure many, many times himself. It’s so much more brutal as a bystander—or maybe that’s because of who is laying on the stretcher.

“Tube,” Sam says, holding his free hand out but leaving his eyes locked onto Dean’s vocal cords. Jody hands over the one he’s chosen and prepared that’s sitting on top of the airway kit, half out of its plastic wrapping and covered in lube. Castiel swallows the lump in his throat and tries not to feel useless. He cycles the blood pressure cuff on Dean’s arm, not overly interested in the results, and tries not to feel worried about the way Sam grunts and struggles to get the tube situated.

After what feels like hours but was really only seconds, Sam blows out a breath of relief as he inflates the balloon that’ll keep the tube in place and removes the blade. Jody gets a tube holder around the back of Dean’s head and screws it into place so that their setup doesn’t move while Sam test-ventilates. In time with his team, Castiel gets his stethoscope in his ears and checks Dean’s lung sounds. “Pull it back a centimeter,” he suggests, when he listens to the left side of Dean’s chest. “You’re deep.” 

Sam loosens the structures keeping the tube in place and does as Castiel suggested, ventilating again as Castiel listens and flashes a thumbs up. “It’s perfect.” They go through the motions; attaching a CO2 detection device that helps monitor for accidental displacement, checking Dean’s vital signs and his awareness level. The whole entire thing, from med push to matching sighs of relief, takes less than five full minutes, which is about the time the etomidate lasts in Dean’s system.

He starts to stir, groggy and irritated and putting his hands up to his mouth almost immediately. Castiel feels awful—though the meds they’ve given mean that Dean will likely have absolutely no memory of this, he’s still in pain now. The tube is inevitably irritating his already sore throat, and he’s not awake enough to reason why it’s necessary not to yank it out on the spot. “He needs to be sedated again,” is what Castiel says out loud, and Sam nods, standing and beckoning for Jody to take his place with the bag ventilations while Castiel restrains Dean’s wandering hands down near his stomach.

Attempting to change positions in the small space has the two of them doing an awkward dance that involves Jody standing on the narrow seat across from Castiel and Sam half-hanging from the pole that runs the length of the ceiling overhead. It’s the kind of thing Dean would have laughed at, would have cracked some kind of inappropriate joke to lighten the tension.

When they’re situated, Sam reaches over and takes the Ketamine from next to Castiel’s hip, dosing it correctly and pushing it himself. “We’ll just get him through with this ‘til we’re inside. Probably put him on a Propofol drip then, depending how he does and whether or not he’s going to surgery. Speaking of which…” Bypassing the radio completely, Sam pulls his phone from his pocket, chooses a contact, and within minutes is giving report to and consulting with one of the ED physicians. When he hangs up, Castiel has questions.

“You’re the trauma surgeon on call,” he says bluntly. “If it’s necessary, will you..?”

“I don’t think so,” Sam answers, still poking at his phone but nevertheless anticipating Castiel’s question without him having to ask. “When I left to come down to the scene, they called Amara in—she’s my boss, Chief of Trauma. Hey, you know she’s Carver’s sister, right? Your medical director?” 

Castiel squints up at him in confusion and disinterest. Sam rambles when he’s nervous. He’s not less competent for it though, crouching down to insert a second IV line in Dean’s other arm and securing it effortlessly, like it’s second nature for him to do so.

“Anyway, I think they knew I’d be useless for the rest of my shift. If Dean needs surgery, I won’t scrub, but I’ll watch from the balcony—keep you updated.” 

At that, Jody leans over and touches Castiel’s shoulder again. “No one expects you back, either,” she says gently. “We called in county support to hold down rehab at the fire and I talked to Adler personally. He’s going to recall C Platoon to come in now, tell them to bring one of the other trucks down to the scene. He said you can give him a call when you figure out what kind of time you need off.” 

“That’s uncharacteristically generous of him,” Castiel mutters. “What is the catch?” 

“I wouldn’t make plans for Christmas,” Jody snorts, and Castiel sighs because she’s probably right. There’s no dealing with their frequently-absent, desk-loving EMS Chief that isn’t tit for tat. He really has no business supervising other paramedics since the last time he was on an actual bus, Castiel was still riding the yellow one, but God bless. Hasn’t stopped him from lording over them at every opportunity, that’s for sure. Castiel will just have to be satisfied knowing Zachariah couldn’t find his way through someone’s vocal cords if they swallowed him whole. At least he can _do_ his job. 

The backup alarm sounds and Castiel looks up with a start, surprised to see that they’re at the hospital. He cycles Dean’s cuff again so that they can have fresh stats for the trauma team and then helps Sam prepare Dean to be taken inside while Jody continues to ventilate. Oxygen tubing comes off the wall and attached to a portable tank, the cardiac monitor goes in between Dean’s legs. Since he continues to be well sedated, Sam and Castiel clip the stretcher’s chest-level seatbelt over both of Dean’s arms so that they don’t drop. All the while, Castiel averts his eyes from Dean’s face, unable to decide whether it’s harder to see him sedated and looking barely alive, or anxious and uncomfortable. 

As their somber group wheels Dean’s unmoving form through the doors to the ER, they’re directed immediately into Trauma One where a huge number of gowned and gloved personnel wait. Surprisingly (or maybe not so much), Castiel feels nothing but relief at handing over Dean’s care for good. Right now, he _needs_ to be a nervous, scared family member, not a healthcare provider. He needs to hold Dean’s hand, to be talked to with small words and careful phrases like he’s a lay person who doesn’t understand what’s happening. 

Sam very clearly does not feel the same, jumping immediately into full-on doctor-mode. As Castiel watches the trauma team descend on Dean, Sam is in the thick of the fray, ordering films and a battery of blood tests alongside all kinds of medications that EMS doesn’t have access to. Despite that, Castiel catches sight of Jessica lingering just outside the wide, sliding glass doors to the trauma bay and he makes his way to her side. 

She doesn’t say anything, just takes his hand in hers and squeezes, resting her head on his shoulder as they watch the dramatic scene unfolding inside the room. They’re in an odd position, both of them—not exactly members of this particular team, but not unwelcome, either. They stay out of the way. 

In front of them, Dean’s clothes are cut off, his body is prodded this way and that, and Castiel begins to go numb, with one minute quickly becoming indistinguishable from the last. 

It’s all a blur.

The FAST ultrasound says there’s bleeding in Dean’s belly, so he goes to the OR for an exploratory laparotomy. Jess has to go back to work, but Meg shows up before she leaves—and thank God for that, because Castiel is barely functioning. While he spaces out, Meg guides him around the hospital, wherever it is he needs to be. From the ED to the OR waiting room, to yet another, smaller waiting room outside the ICU, Meg’s presence by his side keeps Castiel from simply curling up in a ball on the floor or possibly going catatonic. She manages his phone, relays messages from Sam ( _“everything is fine, bruised spleen, they’re closing him up”),_ and rubs his hand comfortingly, softer than Castiel’s ever seen her. She puts coffee in his hand, gets in between Castiel and nosy well-wishers who show up or text to find out what happened, and eventually, she walks Castiel into the ICU to see Dean once he’s finally out of recovery.

Sam’s status in the hospital has the ICU bending the rules—Castiel shouldn’t even be allowed in, not technically. And yet, he finds himself welcomed, like a brother ( _or a husband),_ accepted by Sam’s word alone that he’s important enough to Dean to remain at his side. 

Dean is—well, that’s hard to describe. When Castiel first walks in—despite being incredibly prepared for what he knows he’ll see—it’s a shock. His usually bright and vibrant friend is pale, small-looking in his hospital bed, buried under wires and multiple IV lines attached to assorted medication pumps. There’s a cast on his left forearm, one running from thigh to ankle on his left leg, and a compression garment to encourage circulation on the other. Plus, he’s still intubated, now hooked up to a giant vent that hums and hisses steadily and beeps occasionally. 

All of those things, Castiel expected. He knew that Dean’s left radius and ulna had both been broken in the fall, that his left kneecap had been too. He knew Dean was lucky enough to be able to avoid surgery for both of those things—for now. He knew Dean had a couple of fractured ribs, still more that were badly bruised, plus bruised bones in his hips, pelvis, and likely a concussion in his head. He knew what a post-surgical ICU patient on a vent would look like. He _knew._

But what he didn’t anticipate was having to reconcile _Dean_ as that patient; still, vulnerable, _sick_.

When Castiel steps to Dean’s bedside and takes his hand, Dean’s eyes flutter partially open and he grimaces around the tube, which has Castiel feeling a strange flood of relief. Not that Dean’s uncomfortable, but that Dean’s _in_ there, that he’s still himself and he’s still fighting. The moment is brief though, with Dean slipping back off into a medicated sleep almost immediately. 

And that, with very little deviation, is how the next few days go by as well. Brief progress often immediately followed by some setback, tiny victories that Castiel is told he should celebrate like big ones. 

He just wants to take Dean home.

Instead, he zombie-walks through the hours, assisting with Dean’s care as much as he’s allowed, which mostly amounts to cleaning him up and changing his linens with the staff. Sometimes, he’s permitted to help with cast care to Dean’s injured arm and leg, and with the frequent turning and repositioning of his limp body. He’s not supposed to, but Castiel is quick do things like empty Dean’s catheter bag and use the oral swabs Sam nicks from the supply room to carefully clean Dean’s teeth and tongue and around the tube. 

He makes sure that everyone who enters the room knows how precious Dean is and that they treat him as such, but mostly, Castiel sits and waits. The white noise of daytime talk shows and the kind of trash that’s on TV at three a.m. becomes the soundtrack to his life, overlaid with the ever-present beeping and hissing of IV pumps and the vent. 

The ICU nurses and aides fuss over Castiel nearly as much as Dean, bringing him sandwiches and juices, ginger ale in styrofoam cups and warnings to not “wear himself out,” because “Dean is going to need you even more,” in the coming days. 

That sounds like heaven—Castiel can’t wait for Dean to need him again. To be fucking _useful_ instead of eternally occupying the comfy chair someone dragged in, acting like he’s a tumor growing out of the seat cushion. 

Sam is there a lot too, of course, though he manages his well-being a lot better than Castiel, or perhaps that’s Jess at the wheel. It’s probably Jess. Either way, Sam leaves the hospital at night, he sleeps at home, he showers and shaves and doesn’t lose ten pounds in five days. He also continues going to work; hanging out and doing his charting and such from the ICU where he can keep an eye on Dean, which is almost suspiciously convenient. 

On day four, Dean is supposed to be extubated but instead is diagnosed with pneumonia. An aggressive course of antibiotics resolves the worst of that in another day and a half, but early on Castiel and Sam are told to “prepare themselves,” because infection after smoke inhalation is frequently fatal.

Dean fights hard and beats the odds once again, not that Castiel ever doubted him, even for a second.

( _Maybe for a second. The dead of night is a lonely, painfully quiet time in the hospital.)_

During their stay, Castiel comes to learn the cracks in the wall of Dean’s ICU room like the lines on his own face. He could draw the borders of the small water spot on the ceiling perfectly with his non-dominant hand. He knows all of the staff by name, from Kevin, the environmental services kid who empties Dean’s trash most nights and is attending graduate school for physics, to Dean’s slightly strange but clearly competent attending, Amara. 

By day five, Castiel is sporting a beard he thinks Dean would absolutely _hate_ but probably demand Castiel drag all over his thighs before he shaves it. 

On day six, Sam parks him in front of the mirror in the hallway bathroom and demands he do exactly that. Eventually, Sam switches out with Jess in exasperation when Castiel simply stands there with the razor in his hand and stares blankly at his homeless-looking reflection, glaring at the bags under his eyes. 

Jess shaves his face for him with the practiced, gentle hands of a nurse who is used to caring for people who are unable to care for themselves. 

As a thank you to Jess for his newly-shaven face, Castiel takes a shower.

That evening, Dean’s treatment team stops the sedation, and Dean wakes up. 

They crank the head of Dean’s ICU bed up so that he’s sitting and the “superior Doctor Edlund,” as Amara calls herself, pulls the tube free just as soon as Dean makes it clear he’s back with them. Once it’s out, Dean coughs and wheezes and makes a series of disgusted and irritated faces that Castiel would find both amusing and adorable, if not for the current set of circumstances. His nurse swoops in to stick a nasal cannula under Dean’s nose and around his ears, and he looks as if he likes that even less.

Castiel’s chest feels tight but his heart is full.

“Can I—” Dean starts, but abruptly breaks off to cough, wincing and touching his fingers to his throat. Castiel shifts where he sits on the side of Dean’s bed, looking around for something to offer him, but his nurse is already coming to the rescue, holding out a cup of water for Dean to sip.

“Slowly,” she cautions as Dean slurps gratefully, though it clearly hurts him almost as much to swallow. “You haven’t had solid food in a few days, we’ve been bypassing your stomach completely. You can thank your brother for pulling _that_ tube long before you woke up.” 

“I remember,” Dean mutters hoarsely, shrugging one shoulder before accepting another sip of water and then flopping back against his pillow. “Little. Sucked.” 

The fact that Dean is already _joking,_ as exhausted and uncomfortable as he must be, has Castiel stifling a somewhat distressed laugh and covering his mouth. Hoping fervently that Dean doesn’t notice, Castiel closes his eyes and squeezes, willing the tears that are welling up there to disperse. 

_No such luck._

When Castiel opens again, Dean’s hand is on his thigh and he’s gazing at Castiel with warm, if tired, fondness and he winks. 

“Alright, gang,” Amara declares, after doing the world’s quickest physical exam on Dean in history. She turns and sweeps her white-coat-clad arms towards the door in a gesture that clearly means, _get the fuck out._ “Dean needs to rest. _One_ of you may stay, and I’ll make that choice an easy one—Sam, come with me now and I’ll let you consult on your brother’s plan of care.”

Sam’s face lights up. After giving Dean a gentle hug and murmuring some words of encouragement in his ear, he follows his Chief out like a puppy. He’s hand-in-hand with Jess, who’s just gotten off her own shift, and that takes care of half of the room. It’s just Castiel and Dean’s nurse now, who he’s pretty sure was exempt from the shooing. 

Despite that, she has Dean rate his pain, adjusts a few things on the various IV pumps, administers a push medication, and warns Castiel not to try and keep Dean awake.

“I’m not an idiot,” Castiel mutters, sliding off the side of the bed and into his own chair, which probably has the outline of his butt permanently imprinted on the cushion at this point.

“No,” the nurse agrees amiably, adjusting one of Dean’s infusions for the last time before heading for the door. “But you’ve been waiting for this since the moment y’all walked in. What he’s been through and what you’ve been through are two totally different kinds of trauma, and you both need time to recover. Just… keep your expectations low for tonight.” Before Castiel can reply, she wiggles her fingers at them and slips out.

That leaves Castiel alone with Dean, but when he turns his attention back to the man, Dean’s already fast asleep. “Low expectations,” Castiel says softly. “Check.” Still, he can’t resist scooping up Dean’s hand just to feel the warm weight of it, the lines and bumps of Dean’s fingers interlacing with his own. Many times over the past few days Castiel has sat like this, pressing the pads of two fingers down over Dean’s pulse point anytime he needed tangible proof of life. 

The action makes Dean stir, pretty long lashes batting against his cheek as his eyelids flutter open, just halfway. “Hey,” he croaks, licking his lips, and Castiel immediately holds up the water cup for Dean to take a sip. He drinks slowly, letting his head fall back heavily when he’s done. Dean looks positively drained, and once again, Castiel wishes there was something he could _do._

He’s so busy worrying about how useless he is, Castiel forgets to _say_ anything to Dean, who tugs at his hand weakly but impatiently. “Sorry,” Castiel tells him, when he realizes Dean is trying to get his attention. “I just—” He stops, drops his head to their joined hands against the mattress and presses his forehead to Dean’s knuckles, swallowing a treasonous sob before it can escape. 

Against his skin, Dean’s hand turns, something it hasn’t done in days, despite Castiel doing this same thing so many times. Tonight, Dean’s hand cups his jaw, tries to encourage him to sit up. When he does, Castiel knows he looks awful, probably red-eyed and with tears streaming down his cheeks, but Dean still looks at him like he’s the only person who matters in the world. The way his eyes crinkle and the corners of his lips curl up, it’s so _Dean_ and so fucking relieving, Castiel can barely breathe. 

“Come,” Dean says huskily, spreading his arms like he wants Castiel to crawl into them. He can’t, the bed is too damn small even if he wanted to, never mind all of Dean’s wires and tubes still running into and over him. But hell if they don’t try. When all is said and done, Castiel’s managed to wedge his hip onto the side of the bed right next to Dean’s and he curls forward, tucking his face into Dean’s neck, careful to avoid the central line in his chest that was placed way back on Day Two. Dean’s not strong enough to do much more than wrap his arms loosely around Castiel’s waist, but he noses in his hair, hums a little with happiness. 

It’s—it’s _not_ how Castiel ever imagined this moment would be, the first time they’re alone together after sharing their feelings. But it _is_ real and Dean is _alive,_ and right now, that’s more than enough. 

Remembering both Amara and the nurse’s warnings, Castiel forces himself to pull away much sooner than he wants to ( _he never wants to)_ , and when he does, Dean’s eyelids are heavy, barely staying open. 

“I’m with you all the way here,” Castiel promises, squeezing Dean’s hands tight between both of his own, but Dean just rolls his tired eyes, which makes Castiel laugh, even as another tear escapes. 

“Dramatic,” Dean replies, his voice cracking in the middle, but Castiel gets the point.

“Alright,” he concedes, raising both hands before sinking back into his stupid chair and regarding Dean with great affection. “I understand. No “chick-flick moments,” right?” Dean’s smile widens at Castiel’s use of air quotes and he tips his chin in agreement to the sentiment expressed. Castiel grins, beyond happy to have his asshole friend— _boyfriend?—_ back. “Go to sleep, you incorrigible bastard.” 

Dean salutes, barely getting the tips of his fingers to his temple before his eyes are closing the rest of the way, whether he wants them to or not. When Castiel is sure he’s asleep, Dean surprises him by murmuring roughly, “Love you.” 

“Oh, sweetheart, I love you too,” Castiel replies immediately, surging out of his seat to press a kiss to Dean’s forehead, lingering to draw a hand down across his cheek, fingers catching on the oxygen tubing. “My whole life, I’ve never loved anything else.” 

Even though he’s stuck in the “comfy” chair and gets woken up nearly every hour each time a nurse comes in to check on Dean, that night Castiel sleeps better than he has in ages. He dreams vividly about doing so next to Dean, in his own apartment, in his own bed— _not_ in the playroom. Even fast asleep, Castiel can’t wait.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose to still post the chapter this week because we all need an escape sometimes, and I thought y'all could use the big step towards our happy ending amidst your fight for social justice. 
> 
> Everyone who is out there advocating, donating, and especially protesting: stay safe, stay alert, demand change. Love you all.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“C’mon, Cas,” Dean needles. “My limbs might be broken but my mouth ain’t.”_   
>  _When Castiel glances up and catches Dean’s eye, he knows he’s been caught. “Anymore,” he says pointedly, trying and failing not to look amused at the way Dean bites his lip and waggles his eyebrows. “God, you’re awful.”_   
>  _“I think I’m adorable,” Dean retorts._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sex-related chapter tags: movement restriction, blowjobs, handjobs, shower masturbation, gentle facefucking, Castiel topping from the bottom.   
> Thank you to @coinofstone and @Malmuses, especially for the careful fixing of past tense errors in this chapter and, uh, my terrible continuity errors.

“This is boring,” Dean complains from his place on Cas’ couch, his back and left leg propped up with pillows from the playroom bed, his left arm in a sling across his chest. Not a sling the hospital gave them, mind you, but one Cas finally fashioned out of satin scarves when Dean wouldn’t stop trying to use his injured hand. It _might_ be securing his arm to his chest a _touch_ tighter than is strictly necessary. 

“This is the worst,” Dean adds, when Castiel doesn’t rise to his bait, letting his head loll back dramatically against the pillow behind him. To be fair, Castiel doesn’t disagree, especially regarding the misuse of BDSM equipment. All they’re missing is the ball gag, not that he hasn’t considered it. 

“You’re a terrible patient,” Castiel deadpans from the recliner next to Dean, replying without so much as looking up from the book laying open in his lap. “I’m taking care of you. Catering to your every whim. You should be grateful. Falling at my feet to worship my benevolence in thanks. Instead, you’re whining. You know how much I detest whining.” 

Dean scoffs. “I’d _rather_ do that first thing,” he agrees, and Castiel stifles a smile, still focused on the pages of his book but no longer actively reading. “C’mon, Cas,” Dean needles. “My limbs might be broken but my mouth ain’t.” 

When Castiel glances up and catches Dean’s eye, he knows he’s been caught. “Anymore,” he says pointedly, trying and failing not to look amused at the way Dean bites his lip and waggles his eyebrows. “God, you’re awful.” 

“I think I’m adorable,” Dean retorts. 

It’s not as if Castiel isn’t planning to give in— _eventually_ —but being unable to turn Dean over his knee and spank him, he’s had to get creative with keeping his bratty attitude in check. _Especially_ now that Dean’s injured and stuck in one place (and at Castiel’s mercy, though not always in the way that they’re used to). That dynamic shift has been… interesting, to say the least. Unfortunately for both of them, dramatic life-threatening events that end in sweeping romantic gestures only go so far towards softening _reality,_ and theirs has been tough. 

It’s been three weeks since Dean’s release from the hospital, and while Dean might enjoy being Castiel’s submissive in the bedroom (and perhaps occasionally outside of it, if he’s in the mood), he _hates_ being _dependent_ on anyone for anything. Which means that Castiel’s constantly walking an incredibly fine line between _caring_ for Dean and pissing him off. There’s been more than one night that Castiel’s stormed out onto his own balcony to cool off, shutting the sliding glass door behind him and knowing full-well that it’s a dick move because Dean can’t follow. 

Though, knowing Dean, he’d crawl across the hardwood floors hand over fist if he thought it would make a point. That knowledge has Castiel perpetually ensuring that—even when he’s angry—his phone remains charged and in his pocket... _just in case_. Dean always lets him have his space though, and likely needs his own. It’s such that usually, by the time Castiel comes back inside, Dean is ready to push past whatever it is they were bickering about and let it go. 

_Usually,_ although sometimes he’s not—choosing instead to ignore Castiel and pouting like a beer-drinking toddler on the sofa well into the early hours of the morning. Meanwhile, Castiel retreats to their bedroom and screams his frustrations into a pillow. 

Even then, he still plugs his phone in and leaves it on low volume by his bedside—just in case.

If Castiel thought he loved Dean before, he’s really beginning to understand what that _means,_ and it’s not all sunshine and roses. 

Still, Castiel wouldn’t trade it. If anything, their struggles make the quiet, peaceful moments they share together taste that much sweeter. Life is not perfect, and Castiel never expected it to be. 

So they’re fine. It’s all temporary and they’ll get through this. In a few more weeks, Dean’s casts will come off, Castiel will go back to work, and Dean will start intensive outpatient physical therapy in the name of being cleared to do the same.

All in all, Castiel has no regrets about the path he volunteered to go down with Dean—both personally and in regards to Dean’s recovery—in fact, he’d do it again in a heartbeat. He’s not remotely sorry for shouldering this responsibility (not that he would ever admit to Dean that that’s what it is) and for not passing Dean off to Sam when he had the chance. 

That’s another thing Castiel doesn’t plan on ever admitting to Dean, either—that he and Sam had held a post-intubation conference with just the two of them outside of Dean’s ICU bay while Dean was still down for the count, snoring away on his painkillers. It’s likely that Dean would disown them both if he knew, and he _definitely_ would if he found out they’d argued about who was best suited to care for him. 

As far as the conversation itself went, it had surprised Castiel that Sam even _wanted_ the job, never mind the fact that he was willing to raise his voice to Castiel to get it. Sam’s aggressive insistence that he needed to bring Dean home to their apartment to look after his brother himself raised Castiel’s hackles and resulted in him making a comment or two about the inappropriateness of that scenario when _Castiel_ was available, which only made Sam more irritated and prickly.

The whole encounter felt strange and left Castiel feeling completely off-balance, especially when Sam had stormed off in a very _un_ -Sam-like manner, holding up one hand like he just _couldn’t_ with Castiel anymore. It’s the most Dean-like Castiel’s ever seen him act, which was terrible, because Sam is _not_ Dean and Castiel’s usual tactics for coping with Winchester dramatics certainly would not have been welcomed.

He would have texted Sam and apologized, but the truth was, Castiel wasn’t sorry in the least. Sam’s actions hadn’t made any sense to him, outside of the theory that Sam didn’t _trust_ Castiel to care for Dean, which hurt too much to seriously consider. Why _would_ a just _-_ married young man would want to postpone his entire life (and his honeymoon) to play nursemaid to his _brother?_

It was odd, no doubt, but Castiel didn’t dwell on it too much. He simply chalked his confusion up to his lack of both familial bonds _and_ romantic awareness—it’s not as if he was in any position to judge whatever worked for Sam in his relationship with Jess, not when Castiel’s behavior was the reason he and Dean were so messed up in the first place. 

Regardless, Castiel had let Sam storm off in his self-righteous huff without protest, only to watch him be escorted right back down the hall by his ear (in spirit if not in practice) by Jessica less than an hour later. 

“Tell him,” Jessica had demanded, flipping her curly blonde ponytail back over her shoulder and crossing her arms over the stained white sundress she was wearing. The outfit looked totally out of place for the weather, and only then did Castiel realize she was probably dressed to go to the airport for their honeymoon. The dried brown smear marring her torso caught Castiel’s eye, but he didn’t mention it aloud. It would appear that he and Sam weren’t the only ones having a rough day. 

Looking like a chastised puppy, Sam had averted his eyes, pulled at his own fingers, and explained that he was _not_ actually upset at Castiel, he was feeling guilty. Apparently, he’d been planning to move out of the shared Winchester apartment and into a brand new condo with Jessica, but had never actually gotten around to telling _Dean_ that. 

“Our lease is up soon,” he mumbled. “Dean can afford the place with his income alone but I figured if he wasn’t cool with me leaving, I’d just continue paying my share until he found somewhere new. I can’t spring that on him _now,_ though! We’ll just have to stay. We’ll lose our deposit on the condo, but that’s not a huge deal. Dean needs me, anyway.” 

With an exasperated grumble, Jessica leaned in and nudged Sam in the ribs with her elbow, making him grimace. “And?”

“And…” Sam sighed, tipping his head back and rolling his neck. “And I feel like I owe it to him,” he reluctantly explained, raising his hands before dropping them against his thighs with a _clap._ “Cas, Dean practically raised me. Changed my diapers, got me dressed for school, always made sure I had something to eat and that my homework was done. I can’t just…” He shook his head. “I would _never_ leave him like this, the one time he needs me.” 

This, at least, made a lot more sense than whatever Castiel was assuming before, but if Sam expected Castiel to support his unnecessarily self-flagellation, he had another thing coming. “Sam,” Castiel said gently, catching Jessica’s eye and receiving a reassuring nod. “Dean _wants_ you to live your life. You spoke to him this morning, he told you so himself. He would _hate it_ if you skipped your honeymoon because of him, after he told you not to. In fact, I think you know that he would never forgive himself, warranted or not. I do think you’re probably right to be concerned about the apartment news, because you know how he hates change and loves you, but you can’t possibly believe Dean would actually _want_ you to give all that up?”

Somewhat sadly, Sam hung his head, raising a hand to swipe across his face before shaking his head from side to side. “No, I know,” he replied softly. 

“Guilt isn’t logical, baby,” Jessica chimed in sympathetically, reaching out to rub Sam’s arm. “You need to talk to him.” 

Castiel held up a finger. “If you’re open to it, I have another idea,” he suggested, and unsurprisingly, Sam and Jess were all ears as Castiel filled them in. 

In the end, Castiel is reasonably certain Sam was glad to be let off the hook, no matter what he claimed. Both regarding being Dean’s primary caretaker, and of breaking the news about moving with no safety net in place. Instead, while Sam and Jess were calculatedly unreachable on their flight to Aruba, Castiel approached Dean first with a request of his own. One that he was _very_ careful to frame clearly and accurately, and to not make sound like he was only offering because of the circumstances—even if Dean only knew about half of them at the time. 

“Will you move in with me?” put the ball in _Dean’s_ court, and by the time he spoke to Sam the next morning, Dean was practically glowing about it. Which meant, when Sam casually dropped the bomb about moving out, Dean had already decided he didn’t give two shits because _he_ was too.

In the interest of full disclosure and honest communication, Castiel had admitted later that night that he’d known about Sam’s plans, emphasizing that they weren’t relevant—he’d already been anticipating asking Dean to move in before they ever came up. Being that what he said was actually true, and the fact that Castiel was _way_ too worn out to lie convincingly at this point in their hospital stay, Dean had opted to believe him. In true Dean fashion, though, he _did_ hold his forgiveness temporarily at bay—only agreeing to trade it for a blowjob to be cashed in sometime in the not-too-distant future.

The joke is on Dean, though, as he never negotiated “to completion,” a card which Castiel intends to use to his full advantage just as soon as the opportunity arises. 

That settled, Castiel had contacted Adler and gone on official leave from work, which strangely, Adler didn’t even question. It was as if he expected it, as if he had already assumed Castiel and Dean were together (and serious about it). Castiel chalks _that_ up to his love declaration over the radio, as surely that had not stayed between himself and Dean. A private channel just means it’s for side communications, not that others can’t listen in. With the way emergency services thrive on drama, Castiel’s sure that plenty of his co-workers were treating their crisis like some kind of reality soap. 

_Lifestyles of the Sexually Deviant and Emotionally Constipated, coming soon to a radio wave near you._

Thankfully, Castiel is a workaholic whose social pursuits have essentially always been limited to BDSM and beekeeping, one of which he’s never actually translated into any sort of practical effort from his copious research. Therefore, all of his sick and vacation PTO has simply been accumulating. The department took care of rolling it over from year to year, at least until he hit the max hours allowed to bank. As Adler tells it, Castiel could finagle up to six full months of paid leave, if he wanted to. 

_Not necessary,_ Castiel told him. Dean’s doctors predict he’ll have the casts off in six to eight weeks, and after that it will be physical therapy’s job to decide when he’s ready to return to work. That _could_ be up to several more months, but Dean won’t be bedridden any longer at that point, won’t need Castiel to be at home with him twenty-four-seven.

Actually, Castiel felt fairly certain that by that point, it will be good for him and Dean to have some time apart and a regular routine to work their way back into. 

Or perhaps the idea of coming home from work to Dean waiting for him was just _far_ too tempting. 

Still, time off sorted and discharge location decided, there was plenty more to negotiate between the two of them, and not all of it went nearly as smoothly. In fact, Dean about blew a gasket when he discovered that Castiel had been working on his caregiver skills the entire time Dean was unconscious. It hadn’t come up in casual conversation so Castiel hadn’t mentioned it, but Dean’s assumptions about what his discharged life would look like had to be swiftly corrected. He thought that when he was finally sent home, a nurse would be there _all_ of the time to take him to the toilet, wash him in the shower, and generally help with everything else “humiliating” (his words) that comes with caring for another human being.

When Dean found out that in actuality, the nurse would only be stopping by for an hour or so two to three times per week, he had been very confused. It was then that Castiel helpfully pointed out that _he_ would be there, that he was more than capable of doing all of those things Dean listed with him, and in fact, that he had been doing much worse all along. 

“You—you _what?”_ Dean had paled, face going slack in disbelief as the implications of what Castiel was saying sunk in. “You can’t—Cas, you— _please_ tell me this is one of your weird jokes I don’t get. Tell me you’re not serious.”

Castiel, for his part, didn’t understand what the big fuss was about. After all, he’s had his tongue _inside_ Dean’s ass. Cleaning him up while he was _unconscious_ and ill wasn’t something he even blinked at. In fact, if anyone was going to do it, it seemed only right that the person in question be him. 

In response to Dean’s marked horror, Castiel furrowed his brow and tipped his head to the side. “Believe me, it was not at all funny seeing you so helpless. Caring for your needs made me feel useful, which was a rarity that week. But yes, I am serious. I’ve already been doing all of those things and then some. It doesn’t bother me in the least.” 

Making a strangled noise that had him sounding more like a dying cat than a human, Dean had clawed his pillow out from behind his head and clutched it over his face, though not before Castiel witnessed it beginning to turn bright red. “Never tell me,” Dean said, into the pillow. “Cas, we have _sex!_ Never, ever tell me.” 

“Dean, I don’t see you any differently, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” Castiel had reached out a hand to touch one of Dean’s, but his freckled fingers immediately curled into a fist as Dean moaned in apparent agony. Castiel had tried to provide more reassurance, but that didn’t go over well, either. “Many people, both men and women, watch their partners give birth to their children, which I can assure you is a _far_ more graphic and disturbing event, and they still—”

“ _Cas!”_ Dean whipped the pillow away from his face, looking up at him incredulously. “Not helping.” He pushed his finger into Castiel’s chest and narrowed his eyes. “And I swear to God, if you finish that comparison, I will live to make you regret it.” 

Putting his hands in the air, Castiel sunk down into the comfy chair, smart enough at least to know when to quit. As they both sat there in silence, the air between them was stilted and awkward. Steadily avoiding eye contact, Dean pretended to watch a _King of Queens_ rerun that Castiel knew for a fact he’d seen twice already that week. Central Hospital’s media variety truly left something to be desired. 

Castiel tolerated that atmosphere for over an hour before he broke. Genuinely upset that Dean felt _so_ uncomfortable over what _he_ felt was simply the _least_ he could do for the person he loved, Castiel opted to try and explain his feelings again. This time, though, he took a different approach. 

“When we…” He paused to clear his throat as Dean reluctantly tore his eyes away from the TV. “Before, on the day—well, you know. Earlier, at my home, you enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?” 

Clearly surprised and probably slightly confused at Castiel’s shift in tack, Dean just blinked back at him for a moment before nodding slowly. “‘Course,” he replied, somewhat guarded, as if he suspected Castiel was not _actually_ changing the subject. Fair enough, he wasn’t. 

“You came out of the bedroom with your collar on. You... _we_ maintained our roles in a purely non-sexual manner.” 

“Oh,” Dean, said, and he sounded disappointed, maybe even a little angry, flushing a little and scratching at the back of his neck. He gave a little shrug. “Yeah, I guess we should’ve discussed that or something first. What, you’re going to tell me that made you uncomfortable?” 

“Quite the opposite,” Castiel assured him. “I always enjoy having you as my sub. And to be frank, I enjoyed watching you be so at ease outside of the bedroom. You seemed… content, even though you were essentially acting as a service sub.”

Dean shrugged again, a small thing that barely disturbed his shoulder as his fingers fidgeted with the bedsheets pooled around his hips. “I like taking care of you,” he admitted quietly. 

“Some of the tasks I gave you were gross,” Castiel noted. “Stripping and washing all of our soiled linens, cleaning the toys we used by hand. I can’t imagine you enjoyed that.” 

“Life is gross,” Dean retorted. “And I enjoyed it because it was for you. I knew it would make you happy or whatever. I didn’t even think about—” Dean stopped talking abruptly and snapped his mouth shut, dipping his chin to glare down his nose at Castiel. “Not cool,” he snapped, waving a finger in Castiel’s smirking direction. “And _not_ the same, either.” 

“Isn’t it?” Castiel pressed, sitting forward on his chair to grab Dean’s accusatory hand and cup it between his own while Dean scowled. “Even if you were _just_ my sub, it would be well within our relationship construct _and_ my own ideals for me to care for you in your time of need, if you’d allow it. However,” Castiel paused, licking his lips and squeezing Dean’s hand for emphasis. “It is my understanding that you are no longer _just_ my sub.” 

“Yeah,” Dean replied breathily, staring down at the sheets before chancing a glance up and into Castiel’s earnest gaze. “Guess not.”

“It’s not weird to care for someone you love,” Castiel added, only when he was sure he had Dean’s full and undivided attention. The resulting pink that spread down over his freckled neck and under the edges of his hospital gown was softer than his embarrassed flush and entirely too rewarding. “Please don’t be angry with me for wanting to take care of you. You have no idea how hard it was to just—to _sit_ here and be useless to you.” 

“Cas,” Dean said with a sigh, head dropping back against his pillow. “I’m not pissed at you, alright? I’m just…” He waved his free (albeit casted) hand around, gesturing presumably to his current situation. “I’m having the opposite fuckin’ problem, and it sucks.” 

“Agreed,” Castiel said easily, squeezing Dean’s hand again. “So how about this. I _promise_ to ensure that I do everything within my power to keep you independent once we’re home. Whatever that may entail. We’ll make modifications to the bathroom, the bedroom. We’ll have occupational therapy get you every device and aid known to man, so that you can do as many activities as possible without requiring outside assistance. We’ll work together, and if there is something you absolutely cannot stand to have me help you with, we’ll figure a way around it.”

Dean was back to picking at his blanket, but he did look relieved. “I just—Cas, I don’t want you to see me differently. When I’m all healed up and blowing you in the shower, I don’t want you flashing back on washing my ass in a shower chair meant for eighty-year-olds in nursing homes.” 

Now, _that_ remark came as a surprise. Caught off guard, Castiel laughed loudly and Dean startled. Castiel felt somewhat bad for laughing, but the idea was just— “Ludicrous,” Castiel said simply, with a shrug of his own. As Dean opened his mouth to protest, Castiel waved him off. “Listen. You know that I am… not like other people. I process things differently, am frequently too logical, too blunt, too literal. In this particular situation, those things happen to work in your favor. I will never see you differently because of some physical limitation or because you let yourself be weak in front of me. I just do not operate that way, Dean. It’s not something you have to worry about. I can try and reassure you more, if you like, but I’m hoping you’ll trust me.”

From beneath his lashes, Dean was still looking at him skeptically, so Castiel kissed the back of his hand and gave it a pat. “You know, sometimes I think that I was built to love you,” he said casually, tracing the patterns pressed into Dean’s skin, the remnants of superficial burns that were nearly all healed. “It’s as if I was programmed to be one thing, one way, and then you came along and—” Castiel looked up, finding emerald green eyes already staring back, wide and unflinching. “Things that never made sense to me suddenly clicked. I am _happy_ loving you, Dean. Caring for each other’s bodies is just _part_ of that, but this is no different to me than what we do in the playroom, because it’s what you need. Perhaps that doesn’t make any sense to you, but there it is.” 

Suspiciously quiet for a moment, Dean broke the heavy silence in the room by replying, “Alright, well, just so long as you don’t develop some kind of diaper-play kink. That shit is still a hard no on my list.” 

“Noted,” Castiel replied with a smile, as he sat back in his chair. 

Surprisingly, though, Dean isn’t finished. “Thing is,” he started. “I dunno if I can afford all that stuff, Cas. I mean, our insurance is decent, but we still have like, a fifty percent co-pay on DME. So, you know. Your idea is great in theory, but buddy, I’m still waiting to hear how much rent I’m gonna owe you before I can even _think_ about that. Place like yours…” 

From his chair, Castiel just rolled his eyes, having tried and failed multiple times at that point to convince Dean that moving in didn’t automatically mean splitting expenses. Still, he should have known better than to be surprised that Dean would want to, that he would try and insist on it. “We don’t need to do this right now.”

“I think we do,” Dean challenged, sitting up a little straighter and attempting to cross his arms over his chest before remembering he had a cast on. Castiel watched with one eyebrow lifted as Dean struggled to wiggle into a comfortable position, waiting him out. “You’re obviously rolling in cash, dude. If I’m gonna come and be your kept boy—” Castiel snorted. “—or whatever, I should at least get to know who’s bankrolling my sugar daddy.” Dean raised his own eyebrows pointedly, the unbelievable brat, and it was Castiel’s turn to scowl.

“Don’t be crass, Dean.” 

“Then just tell me, Cas, c’mon. We’re—we’re like, building a life together here, man. Aren’t we? I mean, I’m not reading this all wrong, am I? You love me, I love you, we’re moving in together. You’re talking about wiping my ass for me and saying you don’t even care if I pay rent—shit, Cas, that’s more than my own old man ever did for me.” The smug look disappeared from Dean’s face, his confrontational attitude bleeding away the more he talked, and Castiel was in the wrong, completely. He knew it. Dean deserved better than Castiel’s usual avoidance of all things personal.

Despite that, he couldn’t help teasing Dean, just a little. “For someone who supposedly hates the idea, you seemingly can’t stop bringing up the ass-wiping—”

“Cas!” Dean snapped, exasperated, snatching a crumpled straw wrapper from his overbed table and chucking it at Castiel’s head. “Start talking or I’m gonna call Sam and tell him I changed my mind on giving him his life back. Then he’ll be my designated ass-wiper and the two of us will stay living together in that apartment until we’re old and gray and Jessica divorces him and it’ll be all your fault.” 

“That is one polluted stream of thought,” Castiel remarked as Dean threw up his hands. “Fine,” he adds quietly. “I’m rich.” 

“Yeah, no duh, Cas,” Dean replied sarcastically and Castiel closed his mouth, folded his arms and raised an eyebrow at Dean, who almost immediately shrunk down into his bedding.

“Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Dean replied meekly, and internally, Castiel found himself gloating. He quickly sobered up, though, when he remembered what he was supposed to be explaining. 

Quickly, Castiel wracked his brain for a starting point, trying to remember what exactly he’d told Dean in the past and how much he could skip over while still making sense. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you that my mother died when I was young,” he began carefully. “Not as young as you and Sam, I was fourteen. Although, if I had to venture a guess, you likely spent more time with your mother in your four short years together than mine spent with me in fourteen. Certainly, from what I’ve heard, your mother at least acted the part of one.”

Castiel paused, but Dean didn’t interrupt or make any jokes, just sat quietly and waited patiently for Castiel to continue. 

“My mother was… unkind. More interested in “fixing” whatever she perceived was wrong with me than finding out who I was, what I wanted out of life. As soon as I reached an age where there was a boarding school accepting children that young, I was shipped off. Even when I was home, she was frequently traveling. Gabriel received the same treatment, it’s why we’re not as close as we might be these days. We have very few shared memories and common experiences, save for holidays and Mother’s funeral, plus he’s several years older than me. Jimmy, at least—well, we were kept together. But he would also like to pretend our shared past doesn’t exist. It's difficult for him to be around me, even so many years later.”

Castiel could tell Dean had some sort of reaction to the casual way he referred to his mother’s passing, but he wasn’t going to apologize or make excuses for it. This was how he felt, and if Castiel was going to be made to talk about his family, it was going to be on his terms. Parched from speaking, Castiel reached out and stole Dean’s styrofoam water cup, sipping away and then holding it in his lap. He fiddled with the lid.

“My father left us. He was extremely high ranking military. _Extremely_ high,” Castiel emphasized, with a meaningful look at Dean. “His relationship with mine, Jimmy, and Gabriel’s mother was a second attempt at having a family, and he was much older than she was. Apparently, his experiment failed. He didn’t enjoy raising children anymore than he did the first time around, because I wasn’t even out of diapers when he accepted a position serving the incoming Presidential administration and failed to invite any of us along.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean said softly, but beyond that, he stayed quiet. Of note, Dean did leave his hand palm-up on the bed, accessible and in easy reach should Castiel have wanted to take it, but not pushing the issue. It was a gesture that was greatly appreciated even though Castiel didn’t take advantage of it, not yet. He was in a particular state of mind at that moment, and touching wasn’t something he felt especially warm and fuzzy about, not while recounting his difficult upbringing and wayward father.

“You probably know him as Chuck Shurley.” 

That got Dean’s attention, and he dragged a hand over the sides of his mouth before pointing a finger in Castiel’s direction. “Hold up,” he said, in obvious disbelief. “Your old man is _General Shurley?_ The dude everyone called “God” because of how much power he had over not one, but _two_ different presidents? You don’t look anything like him.”

“He was SecDef for the better part of a decade, yes,” Castiel confirmed. “And… thank you, I suppose.”

“Oh, definitely. God—uh, Chuck? Whatever. Dude always kind of reminded me of a weirdly attractive squirrel.” Castiel squinted and tilted his head to the side as Dean’s eyes widened guiltily. “And I see how that was definitely not the right thing to say.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel shifted in his chair and opened his mouth to continue, but Dean cut him off again. “You both have really nice eyes,” he offered. “Super… uh, blue.” Closing said eyes in vexation, Castiel held up a hand. “Right,” Dean added. “I’m done.” 

“The rest of the story is simple,” Castiel continued. “My mother had an extremely high-paying job. She didn’t need the child support my father sent, but certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of allowing him to stop sending it. Every penny went into an account that was meant to fund the three of our way through higher education; medical or law school, preferably. But then she died, and control of that account went to me, along with all of her other accounts and assets, which were not paltry. Gabriel wasn’t interested in any of it—he had our mother’s knack for business, he’s a globetrotter and a very wealthy man in his own right these days."

"And Jimmy—” Castiel just shakes his head. “There was a time when he would accept money to help with Claire, but nothing else. You know how he’s turned to religion to help him cope... I never understood the draw, not after...but now, as a Pastor, he still has no interest in possessions or wealth. Claire will never want for anything, not that I’m allowed to tell her so. It’s part of why Jimmy didn’t fight her becoming a firefighter as much as he might have. At least the work is honest.”

“Anyway, as you know, I opted out of a traditional four-year university to attend EMT and then Paramedic school at the local community college. The end result, as it applies here, was a significant amount of cash doing nothing except sitting in the bank earning me more money.” 

Castiel stopped talking abruptly, and it took Dean a full minute to apparently realize that the story was over. “Wait, that’s it? So you’ve got, what? Thousands of dollars saved up? What about when it runs out?”

“Millions,” Castiel corrected flatly, picking at the cuticle of one thumb. “It’s not going to run out. I live modestly. Also, I make a mediocre living as a paramedic. I could almost definitely afford to move into the storage space in the basement of my apartment building, should the need arise.”

That made Dean laugh and then immediately wince and clutch at his ribs. Without asking for permission, Castiel shot a glance at the clock before pressing the nurse call button and requesting Dean’s pain medication over the intercom. 

“Anyway,” he said, flopping back into his chair. “The way I see it, it’s not my money, either. I didn’t earn it. In fact, this is probably a good time to disclose that Charlie has full access to all of my accounts. She directs much of it to various causes that would infuriate Chuck if he knew what his money was funding.”

“I ain’t no charity case,” Dean reminded him, but he was smiling. “Though now I understand why you’re always picking up our bar tab.” 

Castiel nods in agreement. “The money allows me to do what I love without worry. The least I can do is assist my partner in doing the same.”

Before Dean had a chance to reply, the nurse came in, taking the opportunity to assess Dean from head to toe before administering his pain medication through the IV. In truth, Castiel thought it was opportune timing. No doubt, this was a hard concept for Dean to accept—the idea of Castiel providing for him like he was incapable of doing so for himself. Not that _Castiel_ thought anything of the sort—but that was just Dean’s nature. Hopefully, the morphine coursing through his veins would create some sort of Pavlovian effect when Dean thought back on their conversation. Castiel can hope. 

By the time the nurse finished charting at the computer attached to the ICU bay’s wall, Dean’s eyelids were looking heavy and he was clearly fighting sleep. “This isn’t over,” he slurred, while Castiel busied himself pulling his chair closer to Dean’s bedside and holding his hand while he drifted off. 

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel had replied good-naturedly. 

But Dean hadn’t brought the discussion up again— _any_ of it—ever. Not the money situation, and not the “ass-wiping” one, either. There was plenty of opportunity for him to do so—discharge planning was taken as seriously as an Olympic sport at Central, so by the time they were walking (wheeling, for Dean) out the front doors, there wasn’t a single aspect of Dean’s continuing care left to guesswork. Despite that, Dean didn’t say another word about his misgivings, just accepted things as they came and allowed Castiel to cleanly step into the role of “partner and caregiver” without protest. 

As far as Castiel was concerned, _that_ was a win, and one he wasn’t about to question. 

And so, they were discharged home to Castiel’s apartment. Between the visiting nurses and physical and occupational therapists, the follow up doctors appointments and everything that came with transforming his space and caring for Dean in it, the following weeks flew by for Castiel. Once Sam was back from Aruba, he came over frequently. His presence allowed Castiel and Dean to get some space from each other under the guise of “grocery shopping” or some other errand, making it so neither had to admit they needed it. 

On her off-nights from work, Jess came too, and the four of them would play poker and try to make Dean feel as normal as humanly possible. They’d prop his leg up on an extra chair and set him up with a nonalcoholic beer, and everything would seem like usual—at least until Dean began to nod off against his will right there at the table. Then Sam and Jess would bid them both goodnight, pretending not to look concerned as Castiel wrangled Dean into his wheelchair and carted him off to the bathroom to get ready for bed, both of them bickering amiably the whole way there.

It was fine, though. Castiel kept his promises to Dean about going the extra mile to ensure he stayed independent, and Dean, while frequently grumpy and miserable about his situation, tried his best not to direct those frustrations at Castiel.

Most importantly, nearly every night, they slept curled together in Castiel’s bed. Most frequently with Dean on his right side, head pillowed on Castiel’s chest. The pillows from the playroom never made it back there, journeying from the couch to the bedroom so that Dean could stay comfortable no matter where he was, and Castiel didn’t mind that either. The first time he woke up to Dean stuffing a pillow down behind his back and another behind his legs so he could fling his limbs over Castiel’s body and rest them there was a bit of a shock, but the end effect was entirely nest-like and not unpleasant at all.

So they adapted. More easily than Castiel might have guessed, even.

The well-wisher brigade was another thing altogether. A never-ending stream of firefighters and EMTs knocking on the door began the day they arrived home and didn’t slow until after two full weeks had gone by. Only then because Ellen stepped in and threatened to ban anyone who “kept Dean from getting his rest” from her bar, and none of them can afford to drink anywhere else. 

All of that said and done, Dean was _exhausted_ during that period of time. He was still taking very strong, ‘round the clock narcotics, the aches and pains still fresh enough to keep him grumpy and uninterested in pushing his limits. For Castiel and Dean, this made things like learning each other’s _romantic_ interests and inclinations difficult, and for the most part, their non-platonic relationship ended up temporarily shelved. 

It was for the best. Castiel would be lying if he said he had the energy for sorting _any_ of that out on top of everything else they were dealing with. At the end of any given day, all he wanted to do was _sleep._ So while he missed the playroom and Dominating in general, the drowsy, dopey kisses he and Dean exchanged while they were both on the verge of passing out were _plenty_ to keep Castiel satisfied for the time being. 

Right around the time Ellen cut his visitors off, though, Dean also began cutting back on his medications. This left him quite a bit more alert during the day, and _much_ more reminiscent to his normal self. He stopped falling asleep while binging Netflix and started grabbing Castiel’s ass and winking whenever he walked by. He cracked jokes and pushed Castiel’s buttons and was both intensely frustrating and wholly charming to be around. He was _Dean_ again.

But as such, _Dean_ didn’t pull any punches about what he wanted and what he thought he could handle. He hadn’t been cleared for sex by his doctor yet, but that didn’t stop Dean from asking, begging, and then eventually, attempting to bait Castiel into fucking him. It didn’t stop him from getting _pissed_ when Castiel wouldn’t, either, and the first night Dean spent on the couch and Castiel spent in their bed alone was over that very thing. 

The morning that followed, Castiel made Dean an enormous stack of bacon as an apology, even though he didn’t feel that he did anything wrong. In turn, Dean confessed that it was his own insecurities about himself, his body, and their relationship driving him to pick a fight more than anything else. 

“I think it’s very normal for there to be a learning curve in these situations,” Castiel had replied gently, carefully lifting Dean’s legs and sliding onto the couch beneath them. He took Dean’s uninjured foot between his hands and began massaging the arch until Dean’s tense body relaxed and he laid back, staring somewhat dejectedly up at the ceiling. “I am well out of my depth here, too, Dean. I’ve never _been_ in a ‘romantic relationship’ before, and I have no idea what I should or shouldn’t be doing.”

“Won’t catch me complaining about this,” Dean offered, wiggling his toes. 

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, his tone edged with frustration. “But this—I would do this for a sub. I—sometimes when I see you, I just want to grab you and kiss you for no reason. But I have no idea if that would be welcomed or not. Just because you were open to certain things as my submissive doesn’t automatically mean you’re interested outside of that context.” 

Dean was silent for a moment and then he laughed. “Well fuck if I know how to reply to that, Cas. I mean, sometimes I’d be into that, yeah. Cuddling and touching for no reason. Hell, yeah. But sometimes I just don’t want to be touched. Gotta be honest, doesn’t happen _often_ when it comes to you, but, you know. Sometimes.” Dean shrugged. “It’s just how I am.” 

Working his hands up Dean’s calf, Castiel nodded slowly. “It is becoming apparent to me that both of us are very bad at this. Relationships. Romantic relationships, specifically—with all of our mounting failures, I think that it’s possible that we are the last two people on this planet who should be attempting one together. And yet, you are the only person I can imagine trying to do so with.”

“So you’re saying we’re a couple of dumbasses?”

Castiel smiled. “I prefer ‘trusting’. Less dumb, less ass.” 

“Could be a lot more ass, if you’d let me seduce you.” 

“Dean.” 

“C’mon Cas,” Dean whined, reaching down to tug at Castiel’s sleeve, encouraging him to make eye contact. “I’m busted up, not dead. I haven’t gone this long without getting off since before we started hooking up. Look, see?” Dean opened his mouth wide and stuck out his tongue, as if that was going to prove something. “Huh? Looking good, right? No swelling. Totally good to go. You could just kneel on either side of my face, I’ll suck you off, you do the same for me, everybody wins. I mean, if you _wanted_ to, we could even scene. Not like I need all my limbs for that, anyway.” 

Hearing that remark, Castiel pulled away, grabbing Dean’s wandering hands and relocating them to his own stomach. “This is not a rejection of you,” he said bluntly. “But you’ve taken one too many narcotics if you think I’m going to scene with you while you’re still healing.”

“Cas,” Dean complained, tossing his good arm over his eyes. “You’re killing me.” 

“I will, however, promise to take you to the club downtown once your casts are off and you are cleared for strenuous activity. I’ll even let you help plan the scene. How is that?”

“Strenuous?” Dean repeated, perking up significantly as he peeked out from underneath his arm. Because he’s Dean, he followed that by gesturing towards his crotch with his casted hand. “Sounds awesome, but doesn’t help me right now.” 

“I’m working on that,” Castiel agreed, moving Dean’s legs out of the way and getting up off of the couch. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be back with you. Watch your _Real Housewives.”_

“I’m living _Real Housewives_ now,” Dean replied gleefully, predictably reaching up to pinch Castiel’s ass as he passed by. “Got me a sexy sugar daddy to spank my ass and everything.” 

“He must be a very tolerant man,” Castiel deadpanned as he headed for the kitchen and his junk drawer.

Twenty minutes later had him returning to Dean’s side with a clipboard stolen from one of the ambulances and two matching hand-written lists clipped to it. He passed one over to Dean and asked, “What do you think?” 

Squinting and bringing the paper close to his nose to read Castiel’s writing, Dean’s face scrunched up while he processed. “Romantic kink negotiation?” he asked. “What—why?” 

“Why not?” Castiel quipped. “We both admit to feeling out of sorts in this department. This exercise will at least give us a starting point, a basis for communication and to build on. I also thought that we could use the stoplight system. If one of us initiates affection that the other isn’t interested in at the moment, ‘yellow’ could help them relay that. Just like in the bedroom, it’s not personal, it’s just a boundary. Boundaries are healthy.” 

Dean stared blankly down at the paper for a moment and then looked up. “Cas, this is actually kinda brilliant. You know what? You’re awesome. Alright, let’s do this.” 

Surprised, Castiel just sat there and blinked. “I anticipated that more cajoling would be needed. I had planned to offer you that blow job I owe you in exchange for your enthusiastic participation.” 

The laugh he got in reply was whole-hearted and bright. “I’ll show you enthusiastic,” Dean said with a grin, stretching up to wrap a hand around the back of Castiel’s head and draw him in for a kiss. Just before their lips met, he paused, so close Castiel could feel Dean’s breath on his face. “Color?”

“Green,” Castiel replied with a smile, and Dean finished leaning in, kissing him soft and thorough, with far more tongue, energy, and enthusiasm than his healthcare team would likely approve of. Too bad, because they’re not the ones that are living with Dean day in and day out, not the ones who have to decide when it’s safer to just let him have something he wants. And on that note, honestly, Castiel did see Dean’s point. After all that Dean’s been through, he should be able to set his own limits and Castiel should trust him to do so. 

When they were done kissing (and one did lead to another), Castiel managed to wrangle a very soft and affectionate Dean back into filling out his list. There was some kind of irony to doing so while sporadically trading even more kisses and gentle touches, but he and Dean have never been what anyone would call _normal,_ anyway. 

In the end, their lists were surprisingly (or perhaps not, considering) compatible, and whether anything had actually changed between them or not because of their little activity, Castiel didn’t care. He _felt_ more comfortable about moving forward with Dean, like they were on level footing once again, the same way they were after filling out their kink lists. It’s possible this was a somewhat useless exercise in practice, but Castiel wasn’t sorry for using the communication tools that worked for him (and Dean). 

Not to mention, seeing Dean do the same was a turn-on. Realizing that Dean would likely do just about any silly thing Castiel proposed if he thought it meant something to him reminded Castiel of why he was _so_ attracted to Dean in the first place. Once their pens were down, Dean barely had a chance to flippantly remind him of his promise before Castiel was knocking Dean’s good leg down off of the couch so he could crawl between them. 

While he didn’t end up giving into Dean’s pleas to fuck his mouth, he _did_ give him a pretty damn stellar orgasm, if Castiel does say so himself. Good enough that Dean succumbed almost immediately to the hormones and residual pain medication floating around in his system, passing out cold for nearly three hours straight right there on the couch. 

Hard as a rock, Castiel cleaned Dean up and then took himself to the shower. He finished himself off by stroking his cock to the memory of Dean on his knees at his feet and had not one fleeting regret about it. 

The rest of their third week home went on like that, with Castiel pacifying Dean by blowing him or jerking him off nearly any time he asked, but nothing more, and no reciprocation. However much Dean may have enjoyed what he was getting, it quickly became clear to Castiel that those acts weren’t doing anything to quell Dean’s desire for the “real thing.” 

Which brings them to _today_ and Dean’s continued relentless attempts to bait Castiel and drag him down into depravity alongside him, whether it’s in his own best interest or not.

What Castiel wouldn’t give for that parade of visitors to start back up again, to give him an excuse for not letting Dean goad him into some more satisfying but dangerous sex. _Oh, how the tables have turned._ The truth is, he’s _so_ weak for Dean. _God,_ Castiel loves him so much, wants to be near him and all over him in a way he’s never experienced before and is only getting stronger. Ever since he cracked the door that first night by blowing Dean, Castiel’s known he’d cave eventually. 

It was only a matter of time.

 _Well,_ Castiel thinks, sighing internally. If he’s going to give in, he’d better do it right. 

“Give me twenty minutes,” Castiel tells Dean for the second time this week, patting his shoulder and exiting to the bedroom without another solitary word. The look of sheer excitement mixed with surprise on Dean’s face is _wholly_ worth it, already. So much so that Castiel wonders why, exactly, he’s waited this long to relent. 

Fear, probably. But Castiel knows he _can_ navigate this safely and enjoyably for the both of them, of course he can. He’s an experienced Dom, practiced in restraining various people in all manner of incapacitation. How many countless scenes has he guided himself and others through safely in the past? No one has ever left his care with injuries Castiel didn’t put there intentionally, no one has ever (that he knows of) felt unsafe _or_ unsatisfied in his hands. 

And with this—it’s _important_ to his and Dean’s developing relationship that Castiel remembers that fact. That he _not_ lose confidence in himself now. Dean’s deepest needs haven’t changed, despite his temporary physical condition, and Castiel _can_ make this work. It was easy to get lost in caring for Dean like a _caretaker—_ enough that Castiel might have accidentally forgotten that it’s important he remain Dean’s Dom, too, his partner in _all_ things, not just the ways that were currently most obvious. 

That one thought sparks another, and Castiel suddenly knows exactly what he’s going to do. Equally important, he knows _where_ he’s going to do it.

The playroom bed has always been symbolic of the boundaries he and Dean set between them, the ones they’re rightfully breaking down now, and it’s time to finish that off in a meaningful way. He and Dean have had sex in the playroom, Dean’s submitted to him there. They’ve let that dynamic creep out into the rest of the apartment and even the world slowly but surely, but never into Castiel’s— _their—_ bedroom. 

In that bedroom, they’ve slept platonically. They’ve been romantic and sweet, kissing until they fell asleep and holding each other all night long. They _haven’t_ bridged both worlds, not yet, and Castiel thinks it’s about time he brought it all together. 

Before he takes care of setting the scene, Castiel retreats to the bathroom. There, he showers, shaves, and cleans himself up. There’s a bottle of lube sitting next to his body wash that’s made itself a home there (for obvious reasons) ever since Dean’s was injured. Castiel grabs it and shrugs, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to prep himself ahead of time. The bathroom fills with misty steam, fogging the mirrors and door handles as Castiel’s shower drags on, but under the spray, he’s oblivious. 

Two fingers deep in his ass, Castiel lets himself drift into another world. He presses his damp forehead against the arm he has propped up on the tile wall and sighs. Imagining Dean’s fingers in place of his own helps move things along more quickly, though Castiel resists touching his cock, insistent as it might be between his legs. Once he’s deemed himself relaxed and ready, he lets his fingers slip free, finishing his shower routine before stepping out and toweling off. 

From the drawer below the sink, Castiel pulls out a clean plug, lubing and inserting it before stepping into a fresh pair of pajama pants. No need to ruin the surprise. Or, the mystique, anyway—with Dean’s current condition, there’s pretty much only one reasonable way to go about all this, and Castiel is positive Dean already knows that. 

He still does the work of transforming their bedroom into something reminiscent of the playroom, but softer. There is absolutely no doubt in Castiel’s mind that if Dean didn’t want to get laid so badly, he’d mock Castiel relentlessly for lighting candles ( _scented—summer campfire)_ , putting on music, and generally outing himself as a huge sap who has never done this before. 

But fuck Dean, Castiel’s got a stake in this too. He’s _never_ done a scene with someone for whom he has feelings _and_ who openly admits to loving him back. He’s been in all convoluted _other_ versions of that scenario, but not this particular one, and it has him fighting off a certain amount of anxiety. 

Should he act differently? Will he _want_ to act differently, once they’re physically together? Will Dean welcome those changes in Castiel’s approach, or red-light them out of hand? 

It’s only when Castiel finds himself standing at the foot of his bed, staring blankly off into the distance while clutching a handful of quilt so tightly his knuckles have turned white, that it occurs to him he may be overthinking things. 

With a deep breath, Castiel forces his brain to turn off, strolling in what he hopes is a confident manner out of the bedroom and across the apartment. As he passes behind the couch where Dean lays, Castiel doesn’t so much as look down at the man. Nonetheless, he can feel Dean’s eyes following his movements with poorly-disguised interest. 

After retrieving the item he set out to get from the foyer, Castiel returns to Dean’s side and holds the small box out. He lifts its hinged lid so that Dean doesn’t have to struggle with it and drops down to one knee. “Would you like to put this on? No pressure.” 

The way Dean’s face lights up, one would have thought Castiel had announced he’d gained magical powers with which to heal Dean’s injuries instantly. “Yes, Sir,” Dean replies softly, reaching out to run the fingers of his good hand along the pliable green leather in an almost reverent manner. “Damn, I missed this,” he remarks, almost to himself. It’s the first time in recent memory that Dean’s voluntarily dropped the sassy, bratty front he’s been putting on, and Castiel is relieved to see it.

He’s also still annoyed that Dean’s been acting like such a punk to begin with, but now is not the time. _Or is it the perfect time?_ “Would you two like a moment alone?” he asks, unable to resist.

The glare he receives in return is worth it, but Castiel holds up a hand and swallows his smile, plucking the collar from its case and holding it out so that their evening doesn’t careen wildly off the rails. As peaceful as his balcony is, hanging out there alone isn’t on Castiel’s agenda for tonight. 

“May I?” he asks.

“I dunno, are you gonna keep being a dick about it? _Sir?”_ Dean pouts. 

“No. I want you in it as much as you want to be in it. Lean forward.” 

Fitting the collar around Dean’s neck _is_ a nearly religious experience, but Castiel is _not_ a sap, is _not_ going to ruin this moment by becoming emotional and accidentally flashing back on everything they’ve been through and all the times he thought they might not ever make it back here. He’s _not._

_Fuck._

The fact that Dean is sitting here in front of him, perfectly alive and (mostly) well, hair all disheveled and wearing Castiel’s rattiest white t-shirt and a pair of loose Batman boxers—it does nothing to take away from the gravity of the moment.

Dean looks like he’s having some of the same struggles in his own head, his eyes turning glassy and red, so Castiel does the mature thing and leans in to kiss him hard. The intimate contact gives them both something to pour the confusing tension and energy into, and it helps. With his good hand, Dean reaches up to cup Castiel’s face, holding him close and kissing back with everything he’s worth. Still kneeling on the floor, Castiel just wiggles his way in between Dean’s legs, gathers him close, and holds on, letting his mouth convey what he absolutely can’t bring himself to say out loud.

When the two of them finally part, they’re both panting, lips swollen and shiny. Seeing Dean like that is enough of a reminder to bring Castiel’s mind swiftly back to his original plans for the evening. Dean seems to agree, his shorts tenting and his hands starting to wander. 

Briefly, though, Castiel does catch him glancing over at his wheelchair with a scowl on his face—one that suggests he’d rather take a baseball bat to the thing à la _Office Space_ than ever sit in it again. And Castiel can understand that—being wheeled into the sex dungeon like a horny geriatric is yet another reminder to Dean of things he hates being reminded of in the first place, and he clearly finds this one particularly humiliating.

Thankfully, Castiel has an alternate idea. 

One thing that he’s been doing consistently, ever since Dean’s release from the hospital, is taking advantage of his building’s gym. Running, lifting, working out with various weights—all of it, and he’s been doing so daily without fail. It’s been a useful form of stress relief _and_ a path to keeping up his physique now that Dean is relying on him much more (physically speaking). The results are some seriously toned muscles Castiel didn’t even know he had, but he’s pretty sure they’re up to the task he has in mind now. 

“Forget the chair and lean forward,” Castiel demands. “Wrap your arms around my neck and hold on.” However skeptical he might be, Dean complies without question. When he’s situated, Castiel grabs underneath his thighs, tightens his core muscles, and stands. As Dean yelps and clings like a spider monkey, Castiel chuckles and adjusts his grip so that he’s cradling Dean’s ass. 

Pressed against his chest, Dean’s breath is hot on Castiel’s neck, the air moving sharp and fast. Contrary to how it might seem at first glance, Castiel is fairly certain he isn’t scared or upset, considering Dean’s crotch is pressed flush against his stomach _._ “I do enjoy your response to being manhandled,” he says quietly, into Dean’s ear as they walk. “I enjoy everything about you, regardless of your limitations, whether perceived or real.” 

“And I enjoy these fuckin’ biceps, holy shit, Cas,” Dean exclaims. “I gotta get back to the gym, can’t have you showing me up like this. Hey, would you break up with me if I worked out my right side ‘til I had a Popeye arm? Could be sexy,” Dean suggests. In response, Castiel dumps him unceremoniously onto the bed, perhaps a bit more roughly than he might have otherwise. “Oh, _yes_. Hell, yes. I fuckin’ missed this,” Dean declares happily, spreading his legs as much as he’s able with the cast in the way, restricting his movement. “Come on, Sir, make me beg for it.” 

“First of all,” Castiel remarks, stepping closer to Dean’s side and slipping fingers underneath the band of elastic around his waist. “It seems you’ve forgotten _who_ is in charge here and _whose_ job it is to _listen_ and _obey._ ” With deft hands, Castiel works the boxers down over Dean’s hips and cast until they’re off. By the time he’s done, Dean’s gotten himself stuck in his shirt, grumbling from somewhere inside of it about forgetting to untie the sling. Feeling merciful, Castiel pulls the tie and releases his arm before moving to help tug the offending shirt the rest of the way off. 

When Dean’s face pops free, he at least has the decency to look abashed. “I’m sorry, Sir,” he says immediately. “Really. I just— _fuck,_ Cas, I really need this. I need you.” With a faintly shaking hand, Dean reaches out and touches Castiel’s bare side, right above where his pajama pants are slung beneath his hip bones.

“I know,” Castiel concedes, taking Dean’s hand and kissing it before returning it palm-down to Dean’s stomach. He turns on his heel, walking back over to the bedroom door to close it, just to maintain the atmosphere in the room. 

Castiel’s bed is huge. It’s a California King, it has an extremely expensive mattress, and it’s stuffed with pillows and blankets. Not just for Dean’s comfort, but because Castiel enjoys them, too. Right now, Dean’s laying close to the middle, looking ridiculous with his neon pink arm and bright green leg cast, and whether it’s the size of the bed or the plaster, he actually looks small. He’s _right_ there, though, and that’s what matters, equally looking like every missing piece Castiel didn’t know he still had. 

_Dean. In his bed. His sub, Dean. His partner, Dean. His friend, his lover._

Castiel shifts his gaze down for a moment, blinking at his bare feet until his vision clears. Once it’s safe to do so, he advances towards the bed, stepping out of his pants in one fluid motion before crawling up and between Dean’s legs without hesitation. 

“There are rules for tonight,” Castiel says bluntly, shifting on his knees. “You get only what I see fit to give you, no arguments. If you do argue, I will end the scene. As always, I am your Dom. I am responsible for your safety, your well-being. I will not be reckless with either, no matter how much you try and goad me into it. I _will_ punish you for trying to push me in that direction, and it will not be a punishment you enjoy. Understand?” 

“Fuck, yes,” Dean replies breathily, his eyes looking glazed now for all the _right_ reasons, and Castiel loves him. “Sir.”

“Safeword?”

“Impala, Sir.”

“And are you using it?”

“No, Sir.”

Castiel nods. “In addition to your safeword, please use the stoplight system for any discomfort—this is not a time to push through pain. You can safely assume that if you _do_ feel pain tonight, it was not intentional on my part. I want you to say “yellow” immediately if that occurs so that we may reassess together. I trust you to be wise about your limits.” Castiel arches an eyebrow and for once, Dean nods solemnly; he understands. 

Business aside, Castiel begins to feel like he can relax a bit more. He cracks a smile. “Everything else, I suppose I will let you discover as we go along.”

Looking surprised, Dean glances around. “That’s it? No… restraints? No hot wax? No ball gags or dildos? Damn Sir, you go all vanilla on me while I was out of commission? Should I be worried?” 

“Shut up, Dean,” Castiel retorts, leaning down to kiss him. He goes out of his way to pin Dean’s right arm to the bed when he does, no use in spoiling the game just yet. 

With Castiel’s tongue down his throat, Dean moans. He kisses back enthusiastically, and Castiel lets him. They make out for a few minutes, amping up the arousal and the crackling energy between them until Castiel starts to feel hot all over. And then Dean rocks his hips up, gliding his hard cock against Castiel’s, and Castiel freezes, goes unexpectedly _stock still._

It takes Dean a second to catch on, but once he does, he lets his hips down and they get back to making out. The second time Dean rocks his pelvis up, Castiel pulls away, straightening his spine and waggling a finger down at him. “Uh uh,” he teases, but Dean just looks confused, so Castiel dives back in. This time, he leaves Dean’s uninjured hand free to do what it likes, and in seconds, it’s in Castiel’s hair. 

He sits up. 

“Oh, no,” Dean groans. “Seriously?”

“Movement restriction,” Castiel explains, however unnecessary. “By your own willpower. I’m going to give you what you want, what you’ve been asking for, but you have to stay perfectly still to get it. Move your body from where I position it or touch mine and everything stops. Disobey me enough and I _will_ stop completely for the night. If that happens, you’ll get to watch me jerk off onto your chest and face and you will not be allowed to come.” Castiel pauses for a moment and then adds, “and I will take a picture of you like that to commemorate the moment. Hmm. On second thought, this is bound to end well for me either way. How convenient.” 

Dean flushes, bites his lip, drags it slowly through his teeth as he contemplates Castiel’s words. _Stunning._

As Castiel pushes away and slides down off of the bed, he asks, “Color?”

“Green, Sir,” Dean replies quickly, and Castiel can tell by his tone that he’s still very excited, not disappointed in the least. _Good._ Standing at the side of the bed, Castiel arranges Dean’s body so that he’s at a diagonal, head very close to the edge of the bed but not dangling off of it. From here, he’s at a perfect height to rub the head of his cock over Dean’s lips, so he does. 

“Is this what you want?” Castiel asks, struggling not to get distracted by the way Dean’s lips part unconsciously. “What you’ve been begging me for all week?”

“Yes, Sir,” Dean replies, and almost accidentally, his pink tongue darts out and flicks over Castiel’s slit. It feels delicious, but Castiel doesn’t react as such, except to pull away.

“Uh-uh,” he scolds, with a shake of his head. 

“‘M’sorry, Sir,” Dean replies breathily, and Castiel believes him—he’s slipping quickly into subspace and the look in his eyes is nothing but _pure,_ unadulterated _want._ There is no doubt in Castiel’s mind that Dean is trying to be good.

“You just want to suck my cock so badly,” Castiel commiserates, tapping the head against Dean’s lips once again. 

“Yes,” Dean croaks, right hand flexing on the mattress, working against all of his instincts to be good, to be still. _Poor Dean, he’s got a long way to go, here._

“If I let you suck my cock, you’ll be my good boy, won’t you? You’ll be still. You’ll raise your hand if you’re in pain and say “yellow” when you’re able?”

“I’ll be good,” Dean rushes to say. “Please, Sir.” 

“Open,” Castiel commands and Dean obliges quickly. “Tongue out.” As soon as it is, Castiel slides his cock along its slick surface, holding the side of Dean’s head tenderly as he moves maybe a third of his length in and out, letting Dean taste, letting him adjust. Dean just moans around whatever he’s given, sucks happily, and lets his jaw go slack when Castiel tries to go deeper. 

The wet heat of Dean’s mouth after weeks of just having his hand and his memory is sheer, utter bliss and Castiel nearly forgets himself several times. It would be so _painfully_ easy to get lost in Dean this way, to fuck his face roughly and with abandon, to come hard down his throat—but he resists. Castiel has designs about how this scene is going to end for him, too. 

When he eventually pulls back, Dean’s face is sloppy—saliva trailing down the cheek and side of his chin closest to the mattress. His lips are puffy and reddened and he’s wearing a completely dazed expression that makes him look positively drugged. 

“Color, Dean,” Castiel says, gently but firmly, and Dean _grins._

“Green,” he replies dreamily, very much himself, and Castiel is relieved. 

“May I—” he starts and then stops, hesitating. “I’m going to kiss you, because I love you so much and I can feel it spilling over inside of me. It’s not because we’re sceneing, and I just thought—perhaps you should have the opportunity to say no.”

Below him, Dean blinks a bit of the haze from his eyes, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth and shaking his head a little. “Sir—Cas—are you seriously worried that I don’t want to kiss you right now? Or like, are you just trying to confuse me?”

“No,” Castiel replies defensively, folding his arms across his chest. “Our scenes are rooted in ongoing enthusiastic consent and I am asking if you consent to changing the dynamic for one kiss to—”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean murmurs. “Green, I consent, I love you too. Now kiss me already, so we can fuck. Wait—do scene rules apply? Can I touch you?”

Castiel squints and thinks about it for a moment. “The rules do not apply for this one negotiated kiss.” 

Dean just stares up at him. “You are _so_ fuckin’ weird. I love you.” He reaches up and tugs on Castiel’s arm until he’s close enough to yank down by his head. Dean cups Castiel’s newly smooth jaw with his good hand, drawing him in to bring their mouths together deep and soft. The way their lips move together, the way Dean is careful in teasing with his tongue—Castiel doesn’t mind if Dean judges him a little, because _this_ is what he wanted. This kiss feels different—it feels like _love_. Perhaps he won’t stop a scene to make the distinction in the future, but right now, he’s not even sorry. 

“Alright, back to business,” Castiel asserts once he pulls away, and Dean rolls his eyes but makes a sign with his hand that either means “proceed” or “fuck you,” Castiel’s not entirely certain. Despite that, he climbs back up onto the bed between Dean’s legs before straddling his body, reaching behind himself to remove the plug that’s nestled between his cheeks.

“Remember,” he says sternly. “You must stay still.” 

To Dean’s credit, he’s perfect. From the agonizing push of Castiel sliding ridiculously slowly down onto his cock, to the teasing way he moves back up, nearly popping all the way off before dropping down again, Dean behaves. Spread out on the mattress, he makes these enticing little moans Castiel wishes he could swallow, fluttering his eyes open and shut and working the fingers of both of his hands into the linens. 

Even when Castiel begins to really move, Dean stays nearly motionless. They catch each other’s gaze and hold it, Castiel circling his hips and Dean very obviously wishing his hands were on them, though he remains compliant.

It’s intense—this thing between them. Whether it’s love or lust, domination or attraction or something completely else, Castiel’s never felt so drawn to another human being in his entire life. He leans forward, plants his elbows on either side of Dean’s head for leverage, and continues staring into Dean’s eyes as he rides him. “Put your arms above your head,” he instructs and Dean complies, Castiel lacing his left hand with Dean’s right once it’s there.

“Sir,” Dean whimpers. 

“You can finish,” Castiel assures him, digging a knee into the mattress to pick up the pace while dropping his free hand to stroke his own cock. The change puts him at the perfect angle to bite at Dean’s nipple, so he does, hanging on while the jolt of sensation has Dean’s hips stuttering and Dean’s head tipping back as he comes with a loud cry.

Castiel’s hips work him through it, circling lazily as he sits all the way up and focuses on reaching his own finish line. Flashes of Dean sucking him off earlier make Castiel smile, make heat pool in the depths of his belly, make him come messily all over Dean’s chest, just like he promised. 

Once he’s caught his breath and Dean is slipping out (the rest of Dean already nearly unconscious beneath him), Castiel makes good on his other threat and snaps a picture, though it’s not a punishment. They’ll enjoy that together, later. 

He goes about his usual routine; cleaning both himself and Dean up with a warm cloth before propping Dean on some pillows and ensuring he drinks his orange juice. In line with their new normal, Castiel also provides Dean with the handful of pills he takes at night and watches as they all go down. As he turns off lights and blows out candles, Castiel can’t help but feel like this is all _very normal._

He’s not sure what he expected to come from having sex with a Dean who is in love with him, but it wasn’t _normal._ It wasn’t _routine._ Something life-changing, perhaps, something profound. And maybe that’s unfair, because those things were certainly there too—they always are between them—but no more than any other time they’ve had sex. Or any time they’ve held each other through the night, or snuggled on the couch, or fought about whether Dean _actually_ needed help getting on and off of the toilet.

_Huh._

As Castiel slides into their bed beside Dean, who promptly begins stuffing pillows around him like some kind of crazed bird, Castiel thinks that it’s actually better this way. 

_Nothing has changed, and that is a good thing._

“That was great,” Dean proclaims, around a very obnoxious yawn. “You feel amazing as fuck, Cas. But listen—no funny business when we go to the club, deal? That night, you’re fucking me. You doing me in a room full of people is like, maybe the hottest fantasy I’ve ever had.” 

“Fair enough,” Castiel agrees with a nod. “You know that in order to go to the club, you’ll have to be able to stay awake for more than five minutes post-orgasm?” 

“Shuup,” Dean mumbles into Castiel’s skin, nearly out. 

_It’s perfect,_ Castiel thinks, as he looks around his darkened bedroom and really lets himself feel the weight, the _presence_ of Dean _in_ it with him for the first time. 

He’s home. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you all happy now?? 😂 or are we crucifying me for the Chuck-up lol
> 
> ANYway--We're in the final countdown (LOOK A CHAPTER COUNT), now... two more updates unless something crazy strikes my fancy. I already suspect there will be eventual timestamps for this, which I often say (and then don't do), but I think we could revisit these two pretty endlessly so it's more likely than not. 
> 
> Next time: Time goes by, a promised reward, an unexpected surprise. 😱
> 
> ~~P.S. if anyone out there has any interest in helping me create a banner for promo... I would be eternally grateful. This fic has no moodboard or anything and I just haven't been up to making one. Pwease? Anyone?~~


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas finally get to have their cake and eat it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to thank everyone who offered and made banner art for this fic, I wish I could put into words how much it means to me that anyone would even WANT to do that. I feel like fanart is one of the most generous and awesome things someone can use to show love for a story, in any form, and I appreciate each and every one SO MUCH.  
> A shoutout to [Lindsay/LadyRandomBox](https://twitter.com/ladyrandombox), whose gorgeous banners are in this chapter and the first one, [WingsandImpalas](https://wingsandimpalas.tumblr.com/), who made the COOLEST friggin' manip that is at the top of Chapter 2, and [Sarah/DragonSgotenks](https://twitter.com/dragonSgotenks), whose lovely moodboard is in chapter 9 (because suspension).
> 
> And also Blue, who arted the INCREDIBLE piece embedded below of Cas and Dean in their outfits in the club. Blue, you are amazing!!! [Check her out here!](https://i-am-the-blue-sunshine.tumblr.com/)
> 
> A HUGE thank you to [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses) for making this readable, for fixing some terrible wording, and for accidentally suggesting the PERFECT scene component that I was missing. ;) 
> 
> WIP/Wings-sucks-at-continuity note: I straight up forgot Jimmy and Claire in the last chapter about Cas' past. Oops. I fixed it, feel free to go back and read or just trust me that he's there now. 😂
> 
> Chapter-specific tags: public sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism, Dean in panties, cock rings, plugs, Dean on a leash (not pet play), BDSM club setting, BDSM community dynamics, shibari, ropes/restraints, spanking bench, spanking, belting, cilice wearing, pain play, hair pulling, bottom!Dean, edging, anal fingering, praise kink, very minor degradation, CAS IS STILL A LOVING DOM. 
> 
> Note about the club: Not all BDSM clubs are the same. Some allow alcohol, some don't. Some allow actual sex, some don't. Some people come to play, some come to socialize, not everyone gets the same things out of attending. It all depends. This club doesn't represent *every* club, but I did make an effort to emphasize the similar ideals *most* clubs care about (consent, respect, acceptance, safety).

_Six Months Later_

Dean is itchy. Anxious in his own skin, unsettled, probably close to jittering right off the edge of the playroom bed if Castiel wasn’t standing, you know, right there, looking down at him with narrowed eyes. “We can postpone,” he suggests, and Dean shakes his head vehemently.

“No way,” he replies quickly, breath coming out in a rush. “No. Worked too hard for this, waited too long. I’m not—” He grimaces, hand dropping to his left thigh, where the ghosts of nerve pain still bother him occasionally. The flash he gets right now is there and gone; if it had been a strike from Castiel’s hand, Dean would have called it a tease. As it is, he’s just going to call it annoying. Cas looks worried, but before he can so much as open his mouth to react, Dean holds up his other hand, still massaging with the left. “I’m fine, it’s not really pain, Cas. Just angry nerves.”

If Castiel looked any more skeptical, his eyes would be closed. “Our appointment isn’t static. If you’re having a bad day, we shouldn’t—”

“There’s no _we_ about this, Cas!” Dean explodes and then immediately regrets it when the hand Castiel has stretched out towards him retracts and gets cradled defensively against his boyfriend’s chest. “Shit,” Dean mutters, scrubbing his palm across his face before collapsing back onto the bed, leaving his legs dangling over the side. “You know I didn’t mean that. It’s just, babe—all the work I’ve done? Tonight is a big fuckin’ win for me.”

From somewhere above him, Castiel’s voice sounds calm and unaffected. That shouldn’t be a surprise, Castiel’s more than used to dealing with Dean’s frequent tetchiness and mood swings when it comes to his injuries and his rollercoaster recovery. For whatever reason, Castiel somehow manages to not take it personally, even when Dean’s mad enough to wish he would. 

Cas is a damn saint. 

He’s also annoying as fuck, especially when he sees right through Dean’s bullshit and his shitty attempts at walling himself off. Or when he’s covering for being stupid under the guise of being brave. 

“Dean, I know that you view this as some sort of mile marker you have to pass in order to not fail. But as I’ve told you before, your goals are yours to set. The mile marker can be moved.”

Dean snorts. “That’s a terrible analogy, who taught you that? You can’t move mile markers, Cas. If you did then they wouldn’t, you know, mark the miles.” The sting of Cas’ belt snapping as it makes contact with Dean’s jean-clad thigh has him yelping and jerking on the bed, but also breaking out into a huge smile. Even a month ago, Cas wouldn’t have dared mess with him so casually, and _definitely_ not with pain. 

They’ve _both_ come a long way since then. Dean with his physical rehab and Cas with learning to let go and to trust that Dean knows his own limits. 

Initially, Cas’ reservations were understandable, even if Dean didn’t like them. Causing intentional, recreational pain while he was still taking narcotics to manage his injuries just seemed like a really terrible idea and a recipe for disaster. And Dean could even comprehend his Dom’s reluctance beyond that—his uneasiness with any kind of hardcore scening at all. After watching him suffer for so long, Castiel had difficulty accepting that _pain_ was something Dean could still enjoy, had an even worse time accepting that it was still something _he_ could dole out without guilt (or traumatic flashbacks of his own, probably). 

In the end, Dean had to take a pretty hands-on approach towards guiding their relationship inside the playroom for a while. Not that they switched, per se, but Dean insisted on a much more active role in planning scenes and staying alert during them. It had been a bit of a role-reversal that neither of them ever saw coming, but looking back, Dean feels like it’s been good for them. During that time, Castiel really needed the validation and Dean needed the power. If he hadn’t taken the bull by the horns, so to speak, Dean doubts they would have been able to get back to the place they are today. 

It didn’t hurt his own self-confidence or his desire to take back some of the autonomy that relying on Castiel for his day to day needs had snatched away, either. 

Regardless, the quick flash of— _welcomed—_ pain across his thighs has Dean near-giggling, relieved that Cas isn’t going to try and turn his concerns into a genuine attempt to dissuade Dean from going out. Support is one thing, but Dean’s not being reckless—he’s _this close_ to being cleared to return to work, and he’ll be damned if he puts himself in any kind of position to mess that up. He’s ready, and he wouldn't say so if that wasn’t the case.

“One last thing, and I’ll be quiet about it,” Castiel says, and Dean raises an arm in the air, waving it around like, _proceed, your Majesty—_ God knows Cas is going to, anyway. “We _could_ simply visit, or mingle. Spend time in the middle room with less pressure on you to perform.” 

“Dude, no,” Dean snaps, slightly less heated this time as he pops back up to a sitting position and gawks at Castiel in disbelief. “No. Listen, buddy, you dragged me to that mixer, we did the whole meet-and-greet, took the tour, did the voyeur thing—you know full well I thought it sucked having to watch from the front row while other people got to do all the fun stuff.”

Several paces away, Castiel’s just staring back at him blankly, pulling the leather belt through his hands like he can’t figure out whether to thread it around his pants or whip it at Dean again. “I thought that you enjoyed yourself at the Munch. You certainly enjoyed the snacks, and I don’t recall any complaining when I blew you in the parking lot after—”

“Dude,” Dean protests, spreading his hands. “Totally missing the point. Also, you didn’t let me come.”

Castiel smirks. “I did. Eventually.” 

“Yeah, well, I want this, Cas. Come on, don’t taint this for me. I can’t—” Dean blows out a sigh of frustration and messes up his hair with his fingers, dropping his head. “This is about me,” he tells his knees, “And it’s _for_ me, but I’m not gonna do it if you’re not all the way on board. Or if I have to convince you I’m ready. We ain’t goin’ into it like that.” Dean chances a glance up, but his Dom hasn’t moved.

Raising his eyebrows, Castiel steps to Dean’s side and straddles his legs, settling in his lap. The position is slightly awkward—Cas is six feet of muscle and Dean’s ass isn’t fully on the bed, but knowing Cas, that’s probably the point. As such, Dean tenses his muscles and holds on, managing to balance Cas’ weight fairly easily. Just to make his own point, Dean leans up to catch Cas’ mouth, distracting him with kisses before bracing himself and flipping them both over onto the mattress. 

Entirely pleased with his work, Dean grins down at a stunned Cas and tips his chin up. “Squats are doing their job,” he declares, referring to the ones Cas has been making him do to gain strength back in his legs and core. Tough but effective, the exercises Cas comes up with would probably make Dean’s quiet, mousy physical therapist stroke out on the spot. But even she can’t argue with results like these.

Considering that Cas is a fucking sadist towards his own body when it comes to working out, it probably should have occurred to Dean that given half the chance he’d be one with _Dean’s_ regimen, too. He likely should have considered that a bit more before inviting Cas to help him build strength, but Dean wasn’t thinking with his upstairs brain when he imagined them training together. 

The thing is, Cas went into this knowing that unlike regular people, Dean can’t return to work with a half-healed leg. He has to pass the physical agility and endurance testing for the City all over again. It’s no secret that getting back to that level after acting the part of a couch potato for months _and_ suffering muscle wasting in his left leg has been _hard_. 

Lucky for Dean, Cas has been more than willing to get creative, both with workouts and motivations. It’s thanks to Cas giving him _other_ things to focus on while strength training that Dean’s come as far as he has. After all, no physical therapist was ever going to suggest augmenting squats by doing them with his ass over a dildo. _Cas_ would, though. 

Yes, Cas built an attachment for the spanking bench he already owned, one that allowed his dildo of choice to be placed vertical on the adjustable kneeler, _right_ where Dean’s ass ended up in a properly-done squat. Hours of fun-slash-misery, but Dean’s thighs are almost as thick as Cas’ these days and he’s got the endurance of an actual cowboy for riding Cas’ cock, so _take that, Cas_. 

...alright, so maybe Cas stands to gain a few things from all of this, too.

Regardless, there are plenty of other ingenious exercises besides the pegging squat that have helped Dean along in his journey back to being ripped. That includes Dean’s favorite, which is Cas himself laying underneath Dean’s hips with his mouth open while Dean does push-ups and _dude—_ Dean’s never been more motivated to feel the burn. 

In retrospect, Cas has had a _lot_ to do with Dean’s current state, both mental and physical, and maybe he should be a little less hard on the guy for trying to look out for his well-being.

It’s just that Dean has _plans_ , and this night is important to him for more than one reason. Dean’s _nerves_ are acting up for more than one reason. Really, it’s got a lot less to do with the way he’s about to get publicly flogged and railed and a lot _more_ to do with what he _hopes_ Cas will be wearing when he does all that to him. 

The ring sits heavy in the little box in Dean’s pocket. 

About a month ago, Dean had nervously confessed his intentions to Sam, and both he and Jess (once they’d calmed down) had instantly volunteered to help Dean shop. They’d been inside the mall jewelry store for all of two minutes before the winner was spotted, perched on blue velvet inside the glass case, and the three of them were excitedly freaking out about how _perfect_ this particular band was. Ironically, Sam and Jess didn’t know exactly _why_ the ring was perfect, but even so, they _were_ right. 

White gold with a line of sapphire running through the middle, the stones are a blue that Dean will forever associate with his Dom, his friend, his— _hopefully—_ husband. The ring reminds Dean very much of his emerald collar and the way it matches his own eyes. Imagining the ring on Cas’ finger, he suddenly understands what Cas’ affection for the collar itself was based upon way back when. Dean wants Cas in this ring, wants him to _never_ take it off. And he’s in no way promising he won’t be all over it like a lovestruck idiot, exactly how he hated Cas doing to him when they first got together, because Dean didn’t _get it_ then _._ He does now. Wearing this ring, Cas is _his._

And if all goes as planned, Cas is going to have it on his finger tonight.

Even before he swiped his credit card at the store, Dean had been wracking his brain trying to plan the perfect proposal, but nothing seemed right. What he really wanted was to make it up to Castiel for the shitty love confession that never should have been—to give the guy all the romance and emotional crap both of them secretly really enjoy (sometimes) and that Castiel deserves. 

But the “right time” never seemed to present itself, and any scenario Dean tried to concoct felt forced, felt like it wasn’t _them._ In fact, as recently as a couple of days prior, Dean had gone so far as to _almost_ pull the trigger. 

While Cas was at work, Dean had gone shopping. When he returned home, he’d pushed all of the furniture in the living room up against the walls. Space cleared, he’d built a pillow and blanket nest around a disgustingly adorable picnic set-up on the floor. He lit candles, strung fairy lights, put champagne on ice, and cooked Cas’ favorite meal; the whole enchilada (not literally, he made burgers). Dean even busted out his old boombox to curate a mixtape for Cas of his thirteen _most_ favorite Led Zeppelin tracks, which _everyone_ knows is as romantic as it gets. 

But when it came down to the wire, Dean just couldn’t spit the words out. There was nothing wrong with his setup—hell, Cas was thrilled with it. Tipsy on champagne and elated to have a hot meal in his belly after a long day on the rig with virtually no breaks, Cas had been handsy all throughout dinner. Not just with feeding Dean (which he insisted on), but in general. In fact, they both had been uncharacteristically soft and affectionate with each other, laughing and exchanging kisses and gentle words like a couple of irredeemable saps. Absolutely _nothing_ was out of place, and no scene Dean’s able to imagine or dream up could have set a more perfect tone.

Despite all that, the moment just didn’t feel right. Not that Dean could give voice to _why,_ it just didn’t. So the ring stayed heavy in his pocket, heavier in his mind. Ever since, Dean’s slowly starting to realize that if he keeps waiting for the “perfect moment,” he and Cas are gonna die of old age before they ever make it to the altar. And he _really_ wants Cas to go into the club tonight _marked_ as Dean’s. Possessive, maybe, but Cas was right when he said they aren’t _just_ Dom and sub anymore, and Dean—Dean wants everyone else to know that, too.

So fuck romance, that’s never really been their thing, anyway. It’s fucking time.

“So, I’m gonna—” Dean cuts himself off, swallows hard, and gestures towards the doorway. The reason they’re in the playroom to begin with was to gather supplies for tonight and then get Dean ready, but his collar is still in its box out in the foyer. Dean left it there intentionally; wanted the excuse to gather himself for a minute, to come back and get down on one knee for an entirely different reason. It’s cliche, it’s symbolic, it feels like _them,_ as much as anything is ever going to _._

“Of course,” Castiel acknowledges, failing to notice that anything is strange with Dean’s demeanor as he slides off of his lap and takes himself back to the middle armoire to continue rifling through it. Letting his gaze linger on the way Castiel’s too-small t-shirt stretches across the muscles of his back for a prolonged moment, Dean eventually heaves a deep breath, stands, and walks out of the room. His nervous left hand is flexing at his side, right next to the pocket with the ring.

_This is it._

Contrary to his outward calm, Dean’s mind is racing a mile a minute. All manner of thoughts are tearing through it, barely staying long enough to terrorize him before being bumped by the next horrifying thing. From second( _third, fourth)_ -guessing his instincts on whether this is _really_ the right moment, to imagining all the ways a proposal could go terribly wrong for him, Dean wishes he could press pause and have a drink. Unfortunately, the club they’re going to has a strict no alcohol/no intoxication rule if you’re playing, and come Hell or highwater, Dean is _fucking playing._

When he makes it to the foyer and picks up the box with his collar in it, Dean stops to take another deep breath. He closes his eyes and forcibly clears his mind, shoving all those intrusive thoughts _way_ the fuck to the back where they won’t have a shot at derailing his plans. Once he’s cool and composed again, Dean jams the collar into his free pocket and pulls the other, smaller box out. 

_One more deep breath, and he’s ready._

With a decisive nod to no one but himself, Dean pivots on the balls of his feet back towards the bedroom, yelping and recoiling, nearly falling on his ass when he turns to find Cas standing _right_ behind him. “Jesus— _Cas,_ what the fuck?” Dean slaps a hand over his chest. “I didn’t survive being trapped in a burning building and recover from _two_ broken limbs just for your creepy ass to give me a heart attack in my own damn house.”

Castiel just squints in apparent confusion, eyes darting down to Dean’s chest like he can’t tell if he’s definitely joking, so Dean exhales roughly and rolls his eyes. This isn’t exactly the setup he was hoping for, but—

“I need to ask you something,” Castiel blurts out almost anxiously, which is un-Castiel-like enough to be somewhat disconcerting. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. I feel it’s imperative that I do so before tonight, however… there just never seems to be a _good_ time.” As Castiel reaches a hand into his pocket, Dean suddenly catches on, but Cas has the box out and is dropping to one knee before he can stop him.

“Oh, _hell_ no!” Dean declares vehemently, and only in retrospect does he realize what that must sound like to Cas. The impact registers all over Castiel’s face, though, and Dean immediately feels like an ass. The guy looks like someone killed his puppy in front of him. “No, no—shit,” Dean adds, frustrated and a bunch of other emotions he’s too surprised to parse out right now. “That’s not—I’m not— _Cas,_ you idiot.” 

Unsurprisingly, Dean’s poor attempt to backtrack goes over like a lead brick. Fumbling with his hands, Castiel tries and fails to quickly stuff the box he’s holding back into his pocket. Tears well up around the waterlines of his bright blue eyes in a way that has Dean wholeheartedly believing he’ll be deserving every inch of the spanking he’s set to get later.

“Cas, I’m sorry,” Dean tries, reaching out to graze Castiel’s bicep as he awkwardly stands back up off the ground. Dean just wants to touch him, but (and rightly so) Cas isn’t interested, shrugging Dean’s hand off and turning away. 

“You don’t need to explain, Dean,” is all he says.

Increasingly alarmed, Dean figures he has about ten seconds to set this thing right before the damage verges dangerously close to unfixable. _Thank God for hardwood floors._ His own little box clutched tight in hand, Dean sprints a few paces and then skids to cut Castiel off before he can make it across the living room, sliding down onto one knee _almost_ gracefully. Before Castiel can so much as blink, Dean pops the box open and presents it earnestly upward.

“I was just pissed because you got there first,” he says honestly, with a little shrug and the smile he knows Cas is a sucker for. “Still kinda am, honestly. Dude, what are the fucking odds?” Above him, Castiel is visibly struggling to process, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head before opening them again and peering down at Dean in disbelief. “Okay, yeah, I deserve that,” Dean admits. “But put yourself in my shoes.”

“I _am_ in your shoes, right now,” Castiel points out, still not addressing the box or the question, and— _oh, Dean didn’t actually ask the question, did he?_

“Shit,” Dean remarks again, wincing as the pressure of the hard floor on his knee starts to make it throb. He’s healed, sure, but dropping his entire weight onto a recently fractured bone against an unforgiving surface isn’t exactly advisable. Especially if it’s just to make a point, but too late now. 

“Let me—” Castiel murmurs, dropping down to thread an arm underneath Dean’s shoulder and around his back to help him stand, but Dean resists.

“No,” he says, pulling away slightly, as much as he can afford to without winding up toppling over. “No, Cas, please. I wanna do this for you. You deserve one fucking thing that isn’t tainted by—by my bullshit.” 

Finally, Dean seems to have said the right thing, and Castiel’s face softens. “Alright,” he says, withdrawing his arm and sitting back on his heels.

“Really? You’re just gonna sit there?” In response, Castiel raises his eyebrows, folds his arms across his chest, and waits. “Fine,” Dean sighs. “Guess I deserve that too.” He winces again as his knee cracks, holding up a dismissive palm when Cas’ face shifts with concern. “At least give me your hand,” he says, impatiently wiggling his own until Castiel obliges.

“Cas,” Dean starts, and then immediately falters. He’s confident, he’s ready, but in all the commotion, every single thing Dean’s prepared and had ready to say has fled from his brain. “Son of a bitch. Maybe I should have just let you go first,” he mumbles, suddenly embarrassed and ducking his head. 

But Castiel shuffles forward, takes both of Dean’s hands and the ring box between them and dips his head low so that Dean has to look him in the eye. He’s still teary, but Dean’s pretty damn sure it’s not because he’s feeling rejected—at least, he hopes not. “I want to hear what you have to say,” Cas says gently. 

Staring down at their joined hands, Dean takes a deep breath before letting it out and speaking from the heart. “Cas, I ain’t got any fancy words for you,” he chokes out, past the lump in his throat. “I had this whole thing, but..." He shakes his head, blinking away his own tears. “I messed this all up.” Pausing, Dean sucks in yet another deep breath— _boy, that’s becoming a theme—_ and composes himself. Voice shaky, he presses on. “Sweetheart, fuck up or not, all I want is you. I hope you know that by now. Marry me. Wear my ring. I want to wear yours.” 

It’s not like he thinks Cas is gonna say no—not now, anyway—but for whatever reason, it’s still damn hard for Dean to lift his gaze and to meet Cas’ eyes, to see his response. Maybe that’s because then it’ll be real, maybe it’s because deep down, Dean _still_ feels he isn’t worthy of Cas’ affections, of his love. Those insecurities haven’t reared their ugly heads in a while, but old scars run deep. Dean is who he is. 

But when Dean _does_ raise his eyes, all he finds in Cas’ face looking back is unflinching love and acceptance. Suddenly, Cas’ emotional response to Dean’s presumed rejection feels all the more powerful, and Dean’s melting into his arms before he can stop himself. “Cas,” Dean cries, when Castiel catches him, “‘M sorry I made you think—even for a _second—_ ”

“I didn’t really,” Castiel admits, stroking a comforting hand down Dean’s back. “I was confused. Let’s not—”

“Okay,” Dean agrees readily, nosing at the space just below Cas’ ear, breathing him in, clutching at his clothes. “Um… so?”

Against Dean’s chest, Castiel’s body shakes with quiet laughter, and yet, Dean can feel him reaching up to wipe the back of his hand across his eyes. “Yes,” he rumbles, and Dean feels a rush of relief and excitement and just— _warmth_ like nothing he’s ever experienced. He sits up and Cas is _right_ there, big hands cupping both sides of Dean’s face and smiling, eyes crinkled and shining. “Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes!” 

“Me too,” Dean exclaims, and then they’re kissing and Cas is pushing him down to the floor, wrapping hands around the back of his head to cushion it and licking enthusiastically into Dean’s mouth. In the chaos, the ring box goes tumbling from Dean’s hand but Cas recovers it quickly. He pulls away and Dean chases him, trying to make Castiel bring his mouth back, but he’s insistent. 

“I want my ring,” Castiel demands, and hell, Dean can’t argue with that. Hair and clothes mussed, they untangle their limbs from each others’ and haul themselves back to sitting positions. Dean’s box has snapped closed at some point, so Castiel opens it again as Dean watches, peering inside before tossing his head back and laughing. 

Affronted, Dean frowns, but Castiel just continues to smile. He shakes his head, and pulls his own little box from his pocket, tossing it through the air for Dean to catch. When Dean flips it open, he understands very quickly what was so damn funny.

“Fuckin’ Sam,” Dean curses, taking in the sight of an identical band to Castiel’s nestled in velvet, this one with an emerald inset instead of sapphire. It _is_ really nice, though. Well, of course it is—Dean has damn good taste.

“Jessica, actually,” Castiel corrects. “Two weeks ago, and this ring just _happened_ to be available in your size to take home that day. At that time, I thought it was some sort of cosmic sign. Turns out, we are merely victims of cosmic-level meddling from our well-meaning siblings.” 

_That,_ of all things, brings Dean up short, leaving him speechless, a little breathless, and feeling weirdly emotional. Cas casually referring to Sam as his brother? Dean didn’t think this moment had any possibility of becoming sappier inside his own head, but here he is. It makes Dean determined to make more of an effort with Jimmy, hell, to make any effort with the elusive Gabriel, if it’ll make Cas happy. They’re going to be _family,_ something Dean’s always wanted and never really thought he’d have.

Oblivious, Castiel’s busy trying on his own ring. He stretches his hand out and admires the way the metal glints in the light the way girls do, which is stupidly adorable. Dean clutches his own ring in his fist, unable to stop staring, unable to stop _thinking_ about how goddamn lucky he is. “Would you—” he starts, and then his voice cracks and he has to do a very un-manly throat-clearing cover-up. Castiel doesn’t say anything about it, though, just takes Dean’s hand and unfurls his fingers, plucking the ring up and sliding it easily onto Dean’s left ring finger.

_Perfect fit._

“I love you,” Dean blurts out and Castiel beams, smiling that really wide smile he saves for special occasions—for when he’s either sloppy drunk or _so_ unbelievably happy the joy just seems to bubble out of him. He leans in and kisses Dean softly, still smiling when they pull away.

“I told you,” he says simply. “My whole life, I’ve never loved anything else.” 

***

The BDSM club downtown is ultimately one big, converted warehouse. Inside, it’s split into three different rooms: one for socializing where absolutely no play is allowed, one mixed space for light play _and_ snacking (mostly naked people and sex swing antics, from what Dean’s seen), and a third room, which Dean has taken to calling “the Dungeon.” It’s not an inaccurate description; some of the things he’s seen go down there make his own pain kink look almost laughably amateur. Nearly anything goes in that room, and almost everything _does._ As Dean has learned from experience, the big-ass shower with a drain in the center? Not actually for getting clean.

The conclusion? These people are on another level, one that initially, Dean wasn’t sure he was interested in living up to.

Thankfully, though, that seems to be just fine with everyone that Dean’s met and interacted with from the membership. There’s very little judgement here, and the more he’s socialized, the more he’s found plenty of people who seem to be more like _Dean_ than the chick he saw wrapped in barbed wire with an entire fist up her ass. Once he got over the initial shock, Dean _did_ think it was pretty cool that all levels of kink are welcome and defended here, and the more comfortable he’s become, the more anxious he’s gotten to really join in. After all, it’s only _Cas_ Dean really needs to trust—and that is a done deal.

Still, things at the club can be… intense. Considering that anything does go (within the confines of the rules) inside the Dungeon, Dean’s learned that if he’s uncomfortable, well, there’s always the finger sandwiches and music one room over. It’s each attendee’s own responsibility to know their boundaries and limits and to take themselves out of situations they don’t enjoy. 

Between the two of them, Cas is all about Dean taking the reigns and setting both of their limits for his comfort, because not much bothers Cas at all. If the BDSM community had research nerds, Cas would have joined up immediately, sitting on the sidelines in the Dungeon with glasses and a clipboard, taking impartial notes. The way he watches nearly _any_ scene, _any_ kink playing out live with barely a twitch of his facial muscles—it’s like he’s already seen the whole of humanity blossom, grow, and die in cyclical fashion and nothing can faze him.

Dean on the other hand—Dean’s got limits, and he knows when to see himself out.

All-inclusive kink aside, what is absolutely _not_ allowed in _any_ room of the club is any non-consensual touching. Clear, verbal consent must be asked for and received, especially between members who aren’t already paired off and didn’t arrive together. Thanks to that, Dean is pretty okay about being paraded through the space nearly naked, feels relatively safe to allow himself to lean into the arousal thrumming through his system and the excitement of being watched _._

Not that anyone is very likely to even speak to him, anyway—not with the leash trailing from the front of his collar to Castiel’s hand and the sharp, threatening smile anyone who even _skirts_ the question of sharing Dean gets from him in return. No, Dean thinks it’s pretty unlikely he’s going to have to address that question himself at all, but he’s well-prepared with a polite “no thank you,” resting on the tip of his tongue, just in case.

This evening, as they walk through the windowless front doors to the club’s lobby, Dean feels _more_ than ready for whatever they might encounter, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t anxious. In front of him, Castiel nods greetings to the two ( _giant)_ bouncers as they pass, both of whom smile back amiably and don’t so much as move to check their IDs. Dean might be offended about that if he wasn’t so damn nervous, but his head is busy enough at the moment that he barely notes it happening. 

Castiel, on the other hand, is in his element. Dean’s leash _and_ hand held firmly in his own, Cas books it over immediately to check in with one of the organizers, as the two of them have reserved space in the Dungeon tonight. A demonstration on the schedule guarantees them not just time and apparatus, but an audience, though as Castiel reminded Dean earlier, it’s just a plan—there’s no hard obligation to follow through. 

Dean barely listens to Cas hashing out details, leaning into the “quiet submissive” role so that he doesn’t have to answer friendly but stupid questions about how he’s feeling or whatever. Being a sub is definitely convenient that way, sometimes—especially here. No one thinks twice about a collared Dean standing docily behind his Dom, looking down at his feet and using his free hand to fiddle with the buttons on Cas’ trench coat, the one he’s currently got on.

Another thing Dean secretly likes but will never admit to.

In fact, when Cas had suggested wearing it (for ease of covering up Dean’s skimpy outfit for the brief time they’d be outside), Dean had resisted, declaring loudly and adamantly that if _Cas_ wanted to go out looking like a flasher in public that was fine, but he wasn’t going to be “caught dead in that beat ass thing”. Cas had helpfully pointed out that Dean was literally planning to get naked and perved on in a public place, which Dean strongly resented being used so logically against him. 

Anyway, he’s wearing the damn coat. Not that Cas will _ever_ enjoy the satisfaction of finding out, but Dean has discovered that having Cas’ clothes and smell all around him is comforting as hell. Discreetly, he dips his nose into the collar for a quick sniff, which is of course when Castiel decides to turn back around, eyes alighting on Dean and his nose immediately. The knowing grin that spreads across Cas’ face when he catches him in the act pisses Dean off something fierce, but he just rolls his eyes and straightens up, hoping the low lighting in the entryway is enough to mask the redness he’s sure is now tipping his ears. 

Clearly letting Dean off the hook, Castiel doesn’t say anything, just leads him over to the lockers and opens one up, tapping Dean’s ankle with the toe of his boot to signal for him to take off his shoes. Nerves returning in full force, Dean complies and then moves on to unbuttoning the trench as slowly as humanly possible. If he went any slower, the buttons would be doing themselves back up. 

After patiently waiting for longer than Dean would have guessed, Castiel steps into his space and presses their foreheads together. “This is not something you _have_ to do,” he reminds Dean, for probably the twentieth time today. “This is supposed to be _fun_. Sexy. Nerves are normal. Honestly, I believe embracing the fear and anticipation makes it more exciting. But Dean—the only person you have to impress here is me. The only person you have to be _good_ for is me.” 

When Cas lifts their joined hands (Cas’ left, Dean’s right) up between their chests to press a kiss to Dean’s knuckles, the metal of Castiel’s brand new ring flashes under the light of an overhead sconce. Dean’s ring is safely at home—he has particular feelings about his collar filling that role, especially in _this_ setting—but damn, if he doesn’t love seeing Cas’ in its rightful place. 

“Damn right, Sir,” he says back, suddenly feeling a lot more confident. 

_Trust Cas,_ he reminds himself. _You ain’t in this alone._

And Dean _does_ trust Cas, always has, which has him realizing pretty abruptly that he’s being, at best, silly and extra. Resolved, Dean promptly shucks the trenchcoat down his arms in one smooth motion, handing it over triumphantly. Cas’ reaction to Dean baring himself is validation enough: he’s already seen what Dean looks like— _fuckin’ dressed Dean himself, in fact_ —and he’s _still_ standing there with open _want_ painted across his face, near-drooling with the way he’s got his lower lip pulled in between his teeth as he stares. 

To be fair, Dean _knows_ he makes quite the picture right now, and he’s damn proud of it. The emerald green satin panties with the lace trim and the little bow at the front are back, matching Dean’s collar _and_ his eyes, _take that, Heidi Klum._ Dean can Top Model with the best of them, especially with his newly toned muscles courtesy of Cas and his sadistic sexercises. 

On top of _that_ , Cas has tied a simple harness around Dean’s chest, something comforting but practical for what they have planned. It’s the soft, bamboo silk Dean favors—also emerald, for the aesthetic. Beyond the harness, Dean’s arms are free—for now. His legs, on the other hand, are not. 

Both of Dean’s thighs are wrapped in custom triple-chain cilices Cas ordered online, though only one has the expected spikes on the inside facing his skin. Dean’s left thigh is still too unpredictable with nerve pain, and strange as it may sound, he gets no enjoyment out of stoking that to life—not in daily life and definitely not during a scene. That he’s wearing the cilice at all on that side is simply for appearances—it’s no one else’s business why he and Cas do what they do or what limits Dean sets for himself, but it’s easier to not invite questions.

All that aside, his right leg’s cilice is something Dean _loves_ and wishes Cas would work into the rotation more often. The malleable spiked garter has three rows of interlocking thin metal rings, tied in the back over his quadriceps with black ribbon. Tonight, it’s cinched tight enough to be uncomfortable, to irritate the skin beneath it and to bother him when he moves, but not to cut into Dean simply from being worn. Left alone, it’ll leave his thigh red and lightly excoriated but intact, similar to the way his ass looks after a spanking. 

Dean knows full well that Cas has no intentions of leaving it alone. Just the thought makes his left bicep tingle, has him reaching up to trace fingers over the scars marking the outline of Castiel’s handprint, still raised and plainly visible. Dean loves those scars (and the memories that come with them) _almost_ as much as he loves Cas.

Speaking of, Cas is still admiring him openly, uncaring that other people are trying to get to the lockers and having to skirt around the two of them ungraciously blocking the way.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Dean snarks and then immediately shrinks when Castiel’s eyes raise from his body to his face, full of fire and righteous fury. The hair on Dean’s arm stands up straight and he has to suppress a shiver at the sight. “Uh, _Sir_ ,” he course-corrects, and Castiel’s eyes narrow, his smile absolutely predatory. 

“I have,” he says simply, taking the coat and leaving Dean to wonder when the hell _that_ happened and he hadn’t noticed?

Without another word, Castiel locks their things away and drops the key into his pocket before shouldering his bag of supplies. Once again, he picks up the end of Dean’s brand-new leash and sets off into the depths of the club. While Cas is definitely wearing a _lot_ more clothing than Dean currently is, he somehow looks _just_ as sexy—maybe more—and Dean will probably never get over how unfair that is. The fact that he gets to sleep with the guy takes the sting out a bit, but _damn._ If this _was_ Top Model, Dean has to be real—Cas would kick his ass all the way down the runway and back without even trying. 

Not only that, but Cas is dressed the part of a Dominant tonight. The club has a dress-code standard for Doms but Cas’ personal style fits into it easily. Because of that, he just ends up looking like a hotter version of himself, which Dean also thinks is very unfair. To him, because he has to sit back and _look_ for God knows how long. _Rude._

Trailing behind like the obedient sub he is, Dean’s eyes are drawn to Cas’ ass and the way the dark, tight black jeans he’s wearing sculpt it perfectly. As if those weren’t bad enough, Cas is rocking that black dress shirt/black waistcoat combo he wore to Sam and Jess’ bachelor/bachelorette party, complete with the red tie. _And_ he’s topped the whole thing off with the giant combat boots he wears to work that Dean has definitely not begged Cas to fuck him in (more often). 

Nearly _every_ eye turns to gawk as they pass, and Dean can’t decide whether to be proud or jealous, so he settles on both. At least he can take comfort in the fact that Cas is going to be fucking him in front of all these people very soon _(and also fucking only Dean for the rest of his life—holy shit—_ that doesn’t hurt either). 

Dean’s cock stirs in his panties and he does his best to will it down, but it fills out a little anyway, _highly_ interested in the pending proceedings and the images flashing through Dean’s mind. The cock ring Cas had fitted snugly around the base of his dick and balls is made to keep Dean erect, so he knows it’s either self-restraint or agony—though he can’t actually decide which way he wants to go with that just yet. He _kind_ of regrets not taking Cas up on the vibrating plug offer (Dean’s just wearing the boring silicone variety), at least for a distraction or some friggin’ stimulation. 

His mistake.

Cas leads him through the first room pretty quickly; it’s not overly interesting. This converted section of the warehouse holds a subdued mix of plush seating around coffee tables with food and drink at the edges, plus a collection of people, many in street attire, laughing and chatting. Not that he and Cas _can’t_ hang out here, but generally speaking the socializing room stays relatively kink-free. 

The mixed room, the second space Cas walks them into, makes much more sense for couples to “warm up” in, so to speak. That doesn’t stop Dean from grabbing a handful of the social room’s cashews from one of the bowls on a table next to the doorway as they pass through it. 

The mixed space is lively tonight. There’s upbeat music playing, and Dean finds himself bopping his head to the beat. The volume isn’t loud enough to drown out conversations but it does add to the party-like atmosphere in the room. Over in the far corner, a sex swing hangs from the metal rafters, currently occupied by a female sub who looks happy as a clam to be having her ass lazily turned red by several other club members standing around her. It’s not an intense scene by any means, they all just seem to be hanging out and having a good time. 

On the opposite side of the room from where they entered is the door to the Dungeon, the largest and most intense space the club has to offer. As such, the gateway to the room is blocked off by thick, heavy black curtains. Dean knows it’s not _really_ a barrier, it’s just another way the club tries to ensure that if you’re looking, you’re informed and consenting to see whatever might be beyond. 

Soon enough, _Dean_ is going to be that thing beyond the curtain, that semi-terrifying-for-new-people personification of kink that someone may or may not want to experience second-hand. Maybe everyone will be into what he and Cas do in there tonight. Maybe some people won’t, but that’s not what fazes him. For the first time ever, _Dean_ won’t be able to turn around and walk away if his nerves win out. 

It’s probably totally stupid to think that way, when _Dean_ is the one who was pushing so hard for them to come here. When his own hands and mind helped to design their scene, when literally nothing is going to be a surprise and— _for the thousandth time, Dean—_ he _trusts_ Cas beyond all matter of reason. 

Cas leads them to the corner of the room directly across from the sex swing, over to where a ring of cushy, armless chairs ring a small table with a variety of snacks laid out. Notably, there are pillows on the floor, too. This place knows its audience, that’s for sure. Next to the seating circle is a wide soft-drink bar, since the club is substance-free, and Cas stops to grab a soda. The bartender hands over his Coke in a tall, icy glass with only one straw, and as the condensation drips tantalizingly down the side, Dean desperately hopes Cas is planning to share. His mouth is like the fucking Sahara.

Wordlessly, Castiel tugs Dean’s leash as he relocates to one of the soft chairs, hanging onto his drink as he motions for Dean to kneel down on the pillow by his side. As soon as they’re both settled, Cas drops Dean’s leash and focuses on offering him soda via the straw, which Dean drinks gratefully. When he’s done, he sighs and lets his head drop to rest on Cas’ thigh.

“Thank you, Sir,” he murmurs, allowing his eyes to drift shut.

Maybe the _knows their audience_ award goes to Cas, after all. The second Dean’s head is down, Cas’ hand is in his hair—stroking, soothing, calming, until both the world and Dean’s nerves begin to disappear. At some point, someone stops by to speak to Castiel. Dean can feel their presence above him, can hear the two men exchanging friendly words, feel the rumble of Cas’ laugh and the sound of the music playing layered beneath that. 

Dean’s in his bubble, though, well on his way to leaving all the things he normally carries, normally worries about at the door. _Trust_ is so much more than the word—it’s this, it’s handing his fears over to Castiel before he even asks Dean to, before they even step foot into their play space for the evening. 

They stay like that, with Dean leaning on Castiel, for an indeterminate period of time where Dean swims and melts into his Dom’s solid strength at his side. It could be hours or only minutes, Dean doesn’t care and doesn’t try to figure it out. He only knows that when Castiel taps his cheek and slides a hand around his bicep to help him stand, it’s time to go.

And Dean’s ready.

Being led through the heavily draped curtains doesn’t feel ominous or scary, not when he’s following Cas, not when _Cas_ is the one holding them aside, bringing Dean into a whole new world alongside him. His eyes stay focused on Dean, _always on Dean,_ looking right through him and seeing every inch of every single thing Dean tries so damn hard to hide from everyone else. 

_Oh yeah, he’s ready._

The Dungeon is softly lit, bright enough that Doms can see what they’re doing, but nothing harsh. The music in here is different; still quiet enough and left for background noise in a way that won’t interfere with commands or safewords, but it’s deeper, heavier, something with bass that pulses in Dean’s chest. This is a whole different kind of party from the social hour out front, of that Dean is sure.

It’s crowded in here, too. More so than Dean’s seen it in the past, but that doesn’t faze him because he really only has eyes for Cas. Still, it’s impossible not to notice the sheer number of people—some playing, most watching, nearly everyone touching someone besides themselves, though hardly any of them doing so in the same way as whoever’s beside them. Couples are dwarfed by larger groups that seem to naturally dissolve into two-to-foursomes, but everything feels sort of fluid. It’s an enchanting thing to be a part of, Dean thinks.

As magical as it might be, the one thing that isn’t lacking back here in the Dungeon is communication. The “enthusiastic and continuous consent” rule is hard and fast, and something that’s clearly taken seriously. Monitors with armbands drift amongst the crowd and hang at the edges, but they’re less bouncer than Dean expected initially (though they do that too, if they have to) and more “Ask Jeeves.” 

In fact, the first time Dean was here, his longest conversation not including Cas was with a dude named Cain who heads up the team of monitors. He was super cool, answering all of Dean’s questions and explaining that the Dungeon monitors usually function to help, looking out for potential consent or rule violations and acting kind of like the people at the gym who explain to newbies how to set weights so that they don’t hurt themselves.

If Dean’s being honest, he’ll admit that Cain’s a good-looking silver fox type, one that he wouldn’t have said no to if Cas wasn’t already his entire world. And Cain _did_ offer, though he was amiable and unoffended when Dean politely declined. Even now, in his semi-subspaced daze, Dean picks him and his piercing light blue eyes out of the crowd—lurking unobtrusively in a shadowed corner next to some industrial piping. Dean tips his chin and the guy raises a hand in acknowledgment, having noticed him, too. 

Dean wonders if he’ll watch their scene (likely, since he’s working) and what he’ll think. A thrill goes through Dean’s body just imagining that—and hell, that’s allowed, right? That’s the point of this whole thing, isn’t it? Maybe something Dean didn’t fully understand until right this second—the concept is one thing, the reality is quite another—but he’s _way_ into it. 

Moving in step behind Castiel, Dean follows him compliantly to a spanking bench that’s not in use towards the back of the room. It’s freshly wiped down and has a recovery couch just off to the side nearby, and Dean’s practically itching to be bent over it. 

A sharp tug on the leash brings Dean out of his reverie with a start, his gaze ripping away from the equipment to land on Castiel, who’s now turned to face him. His Dom holds up a finger, steps to the side, and gives the spanking bench a once-over, turning some knobs and repositioning the parts to his liking.

“Color, Dean,” Castiel demands when he’s done, dropping his bag to the ground and advancing, reaching up to unclip the lead from Dean’s collar.

“Green, Sir,” he answers confidently and Castiel nods, a slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth. 

“And your safeword?”

“Impala, Sir.”

“Are you using it?”

“No, Sir.”

“Are you going to be good for me?”

“So good, Sir,” Dean replies quickly, earning himself the soft graze of Castiel’s fingertips down his arm. 

“Then kneel,” Castiel commands, sweeping the same hand towards the piece of equipment they’ll be using.

With his heart pounding in his chest, Dean does as he’s told, climbing up onto the padded kneeler before bending forward and pressing his chest to the elevated portion of the bench. With Cas’ adjustments, it now tips forward so that Dean’s upper body can take some of his weight, relieving the pressure on his knees. The position leaves him head-down with his ass fully displayed and in the air, and Dean can feel his cock getting hard just from the positioning, from the _exposure_.

His arousal only grows when Castiel removes Dean’s hands from where they’re resting awkwardly next to his ears, folding first one arm and then the other behind his back. Cas secures them there deftly using new rope tied off to Dean’s existing chest harness. It’s a snug fit, Dean’s fingers nearly touching his elbows and forearms mostly overlapping. He tries, but can’t so much as wiggle a half-inch of leeway in any direction. _He loves it._

“Color,” Castiel checks in softly, probably noting the way Dean’s fingers are flexing and his muscles are tensing as he tests his bonds. While he awaits a reply, Cas checks them himself, ever the responsible Dom that he is.

“Green, so green,” Dean assures him, his cheek sticking to the leather slightly when he goes to lift his head. 

Castiel pushes it back down. “Then stay there,” he demands, fingers still pressing into the back of Dean’s skull. “And be still.” 

It’s not like he doesn’t know what’s coming, but somehow, that makes it even harder to keep from moving. Dean bites his lip, works hard at controlling his instinctual impulses to twitch and pull and wiggle. Instead, he takes a deep breath and counts to five before letting it back out. 

“Good boy.” Castiel’s gravelly voice filters down to Dean’s ears from somewhere behind him, Cas’ hand resting hot on the small of Dean’s back. It’s _just_ above his panties, taunting him. “We’re going to warm you up now,” Castiel advises, finally letting his hand drift down and tug at the lacy trim of the lingerie. Running his fingers just beneath the seam, Castiel moves the fabric and tucks it into Dean’s crack, around the edges of the plug, which he taps firmly (and unexpectedly), making Dean jump. His ass cheeks fully exposed, Dean can feel the breeze from the ceiling fans above and all he can think about is how he’ll likely be grateful for that later.

The first strikes from Castiel’s hand are nearly soft and teasing, but Dean knows him well enough to recognize that’s exactly what it is. A tease, maybe even _bait,_ trying to rile Dean up. It’s interesting, though—Cas always switches hands when warming Dean up, using his non-dominant one so that he doesn’t accidentally hit too hard, which means he’s currently using his left. His _left_ —which is sporting a brand new ring, and Dean can _feel_ it. Every fall of Castiel’s palm against his skin, there’s an extra spark of sensation from the metal— _and it’s so good._

Dean’s mouth drops open slightly, his eyes falling shut at the emotional ecstasy that comes sweeping over him alongside that physical feeling—Dean could never have predicted he’d feel _this_ strongly about that damn ring, but here he is. 

It’s been less than two minutes, they’re barely out of the starting gate, and Dean’s already thinking about begging Castiel to fuck him. It would piss Cas off, but Dean’s not entirely sure how long he’s going to be able to resist. Dean, splayed out like some expendable toy, is _so_ stupidly happy, and that happiness is somewhat overshadowing his desires to be Cas’ good, obedient sub. He fucking loves Cas. He loves being engaged. _And_ he _loves_ being dominated by his fiancé in front of any and everyone who cares to watch. Hell, at this point, the humiliation that might come with begging could actually be hot, but Cas probably would be disappointed.

It’s those last few thoughts in the train that convince Dean to remain quiet and compliant, to follow Castiel’s instructions and take what’s being dealt his way. 

When Castiel removes his belt, he does so while standing right in front of Dean’s face. The metal jingles as he tugs the buckle open and the expensive leather rustles as Cas pulls it agonizingly slow, dragging it pointedly through each of his pants’ loops until it’s free. “Color, Dean.”

“Green, Sir,” Dean replies dreamily.

Leaning down to get in Dean’s ear where no one else can hear, Castiel softly reminds him, “I’m already proud of you. Don’t think that you have something to prove to these people. Use your safeword or the colors if you need to, that’s an order.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Dean acknowledges as Castiel squeezes his ass and stands, moving to disappear again behind him where Dean can’t see. The belt cracks when Castiel snaps it together and Dean jumps _just_ a little. He’s still floating, but the anticipation is high and his blood is running hot through his veins. 

Instead of focusing on what’s coming, Dean thinks about the reasons behind why he gravitated towards the elements he did when he and Cas were planning this scene. Dean got into this thing with Cas first and foremost to get out of his damn head. Along the way, he’s found both relief and power in learning to reframe the way he approaches coping with his own perceived failings (whether real or imagined). He’s turned both pain and pleasure into a weapon wielded expertly by Castiel, that when used properly, has the power to carve Dean into the person he’s always secretly wished he could be. 

_Someone stable. Healthy. Happy._

That pressure relief valve he always thinks about; it has to be opened every so often, Dean knows that now. _This_ kind of pain? It’s the kind that sets Dean free, and Cas is gonna take him there. 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, gathering all the negative thoughts he’s accumulated over the past few months and turns them loose. Things like, he’s a failure at his job for getting trapped and injured. That he put his crew at unnecessary risk, caused copious resources to have to be wasted and redirected because _he_ was irresponsible. That he’s a burden to Castiel, a leech, a _regret._ That he’s a disappointment to Sam, for all the usual reasons and now so much more. That he’s weak for not returning to work sooner, that he’ll never be up to par when he does, that he’ll be putting his crew and the people he serves in danger by being back on active duty. That he’s a _mistake,_ a loser, unwanted and unworthy.

When Cas’ belt connects with his ass, tears spring to the corners of Dean’s eyes, and it’s not from pain. In fact, he barely feels the strike—but it’s as good an excuse as any. 

The second impact, Cas aims to lay the leather down exactly where the first stripe was made, and that one smarts but Dean embraces it, welcomes it. Strike after strike, on his ass and the tender skin of his thighs, and eventually—over the cilice. The barbed wrap digs in only on the right and causes _beautiful_ stinging sparks where each of the spikes touch his skin. 

The tears fall, Dean _flies,_ and one by one, hit by hit, Dean lets each of those negative thoughts go. 

When they’re all gone ( _and they are all gone)_ , it’s just him and Cas and the throbbing pain in Dean’s backside, and then he can really enjoy himself. 

As the scene goes on, Dean drifts, but still notices his surroundings. It’s a hell of a rush to have his ass whipped in front of all these people. Some come and go, but many stay to watch their little demonstration from beginning to end, and Dean watches them. Even from his limited view, he can see a female sub wince as Cas lands a particular strike, and despite the tears in his own eyes, Dean grins.

_He’s so good, Cas will be so proud. All of these people can see how damn good he is._

Between his legs, Dean’s cock is rock hard in its ring, even though his arousal has been simmering slow and steady, an afterthought to everything else going on. He supposes that’s the purpose of those things, though, isn’t it? He didn’t pay attention and now his dick is almost painfully engorged. 

Cas ignores it, because of course he does. He just goes on turning Dean’s ass and thighs red and raw until the surface under Dean’s face is slick with his tears and he’s more numb than anything else. 

Through it all, Dean stays quiet, save for an occasional cry or moan that he just can’t help, and he stays still. Occasionally, Cas will lean down, cover Dean’s body with his own, grind against his sore skin with the rough fabric of his jeans. His actions are in contrast with his words, the way his lips brush gently against the shell of Dean’s ear and his words come soft and sweet. He whispers sweet nothings, tells Dean how proud he is, how _good_ he’s being, how Castiel could never ask for a better sub. 

When Castiel finally pulls the plug from his ass, Dean’s _spinning._ The crowd has dissolved into a bit of a blur and his hips have begun to twitch against his will, seeking friction. He bites his lip, trying not to groan as Cas’ slick fingers press inside, teasing, adding more wetness, taking the opportunity to press unrepentantly against Dean’s prostate, making him buck and moan.

It’s only in the back of his mind that he even _hears_ Castiel shushing him, feels the soothing hand in the middle of his back. His ass and thighs are one fiery mess, and Dean thinks he can feel something dripping down the back of his right thigh, towards his knee. 

Cas appears in his sight range briefly, adjusting the bench so that Dean is more level, so that his ass is more accessible. And then he’s back, a hand on Dean’s left hip and his cock nudging at Dean’s slick entrance. Dazed, Dean glances up and suddenly remembers they’re being watched, that he’s about to be fairly aggressively taken in front of god knows how many people. 

_Fuck, that’s hot,_ he thinks, and then Castiel’s pushing inside and Dean’s closing his eyes, mouth dropping open at the intrusion. Castiel isn’t careful, isn’t slow, and there’s definitely an accompanying burn because he’s quite a bit bigger than the plug Dean’s been wearing. It’s _good,_ though, and while all Dean can do about it is grab at his own arms, he has to stop himself from pushing back into the sensation. 

Nearly as soon as Cas’ hips hit Dean’s aching ass, Castiel sets an intense pace that has Dean whimpering with every thrust and struggling not to beg out loud for more. As if Castiel can read his mind, he threads a hand into Dean’s hair, yanking it back by the roots and demanding with the kind of casual, unquestioned authority Castiel commands so effortlessly, “Beg.” 

It’s perfect. It’s exactly what Dean wanted him to do, what he _needs_ after the things they’ve done so far.

“ _Please, Sir, oh, God, please!”_

The way Cas’ body reignites the pain sensations each time they come together, with every slap of his skin meeting Dean’s, is _exquisite._ Cas takes care to hit Dean’s prostate when he can, reaches around to stroke his cock and make sure to bring some pure pleasure into the mix, too. 

Dean relishes every second. 

At some point, Cas pulls out, takes all of the friction away completely, which makes Dean squirm and cry and beg exactly like Cas told him to earlier. 

“Please, Sir, I need—”

“Tell everyone what a slut you are for my cock,” Castiel instructs coolly, even as he pushes fingers inside and toys with making Dean’s eyes roll back in his head while simultaneously demanding he talk, that he _make sense_. 

“I—”

“Say it,” Castiel says, leaning down to bite at the meat of Dean’s flank, hard enough that Dean gasps and pants a little. 

“I’m y-your slut,” Dean blurts out, having absolutely no reservations about declaring it to the entire world, just incredibly aroused and fuzzy and barely holding a coherent thought in his head. “All yours, Sir! I’d—” His voice breaks as Castiel’s mouth skims his rim, his left hand working Dean’s cock and the fingers of his right skating mercilessly over his prostate from the inside. “Oh, _fuck, Sir! Please,_ please let me come on your cock, _please.”_

“Because you need it?” Castiel prods and Dean’s breath is coming short now, his wrists burning as he pulls against his own will at the ropes. 

“Need it,” Dean repeats, “Need you, please, Sir,” he adds, letting out a moan when Castiel withdraws his fingers and swiftly replaces them with his cock once again. This time, there’s no break and no mercy, but no demands either. Castiel grabs Dean’s hair and fucks him hard, Dean fully giving over to all the sensations swirling around him, resisting the urge to tense up and instead going totally pliant. 

Cas uses him like a toy and Dean feels _so deliciously good._ His orgasm pools in his belly and spills over the _second_ Castiel says, “you may come,” gritted out hard and rough because he’s holding back, too. 

As he spills hot cum onto the floor below, Dean goes warm and flushed from head to toe while his orgasm ravages his body, clenching his ass and dragging Castiel over the edge with him. 

Vaguely, Dean’s aware of some cheering and applause and Castiel talking, but he pays none of it any mind, slumping down over the spanking bench in exhaustion. He thinks that must be a good sign, though—people must have enjoyed his and Cas’ display, _he_ must have done a good job. 

_Cas will be proud,_ Dean thinks, pleased, allowing a smile to creep over his face even as he’s falling asleep, still tied up.

He’s half-delirious when his bonds are removed, when the pinching around his thighs disappears and he’s coaxed upright. His legs like jello, Dean nearly collapses backward when he tries to stand, but to his surprise, there’s not one set of strong arms waiting to catch him, but two. 

When Dean shifts in the net of arms and blinks up at his rescuers innocently, he recognizes Cas and Cain staring back down at him, one with concern and one, poorly-concealed amusement. “Sup?” Dean slurs, tipping his chin up and doing his best to slap on his best panty-dropper smile. In reality, he thinks he probably looks like he’s having a stroke.

“Dean,” Castiel says, exasperated. “We need to get you to the couch. Help us out, it’s just five steps to your left.” 

“What’s left again?” Dean asks blearily, leaning heavily on Cas as he struggles back to his feet. Cain doesn’t so much as move even a step away, though he allows Castiel to continue controlling the situation as much as he’s able and only puts his hands on Dean when absolutely necessary. Even in his somewhat altered state, Dean appreciates that. _Good dude,_ he thinks. They should hang out sometime, play poker. _What was he doing? Oh, right._ His ass is on fucking _fire._

Together, the three of them stumble over to the couch and Cas kicks back immediately, positioning himself the long way against the arm and motioning for Dean to lay on his chest. Dean does, face going straight into the crook of Castiel’s neck, and while it’s probably not the most ideal way to tend to injuries, Dean digs it. Cain is nice enough to bring Cas’ bag over and to offer to wipe down the equipment, which Dean gets the feeling is a personal nicety, not something the club generally offers. 

As Castiel extends his warmest thanks, Dean lets himself relax in his Dom’s grip. He drifts again, but in a very different way. While he does, Cas smears cream from his bag onto Dean’s burning ass and thighs before wrapping some gauze around his right leg, securing it with tape. The cilices are already gone and there’s not much blood Dean can see, but there must be some or Castiel wouldn’t bother with the bandage. Awkward as it is to work from the angle they’re at, Cas makes it happen and doesn’t ask Dean to sit up. Once he’s finished, Dean _is_ made to lift his head, take some ibuprofen, and drink his juice, and Castiel reminds him gently that they can’t stay here all night. 

The haze of subspace has begun to burn off. It happens a hell of a lot quicker out here in public than inside their own playroom where all Dean has to do is roll over and be catered to. By the time his bottle of OJ is gone, he’s ready to get moving, ready to be back in their private cocoon where it’s just him and Cas. All of the people surrounding them are less interesting, more irritating than anything else now that the scene has ended. 

It occurs to Dean that the way he _needs_ Cas post-scene is _much_ more desperate and intense than he’s had cause to realize in quite a while. Being in public and unable to _have_ him the way that Dean wants—it almost brings back memories of their first week together, when Dean was dropping and alone. But that’s not what’s going on here—he’s not being denied what he needs, only delayed, and only of his own making. 

Still, Dean thinks that if they’re going to come back and play here, maybe they’ll stick to lighter kink in the future. Just mess around and have fun, rile each other up and then go home to finish their scene the way they _really_ want to in private and in peace. 

Not that Dean’s even contemplated the idea of wanting anyone besides Castiel in ages, but despite that, it shocks him to find out how completely disinterested he is in _anyone_ else, in any way, shape, or form. He just wants Castiel.

With that thought in mind, Dean surfaces from the crook of Castiel’s neck, raising his gaze to find Cas already looking back, smiling warmly. “I’m quite ready to go home and have you all to myself,” Castiel remarks, which has Dean letting out an extremely relieved breath and smiling.

“Help me up?” Dean asks, wincing when he shifts and his tender skin rubs against Cas’ jeans. Ever the show-off, Cas scoops his way under Dean’s arm pits and around his back and hauls him to his feet unceremoniously while Dean squeaks in protest. “I said _help,_ not manhandle, Jesus.” 

Castiel just smirks. “You enjoyed it,” he says, repositioning them both so that his arm is around Dean’s waist, casually supporting him while they walk. Dean doesn’t miss the way Cas eyes his left leg with suspicion, watching carefully for a limp or any sign that Dean’s in some kind of pain he’s not supposed to be in. He’s _not,_ for the record. His ass hurts like hell and he’s going to be feeling it for days, but it’s the _good_ kind of hurt, the kind he’s been missing.

“Thank you,” he says quietly as they move from the mixed room into the socializing one and on to the lockers. 

“Thank _you,_ ” Castiel replies easily, pulling the key from his pocket and opening the lock. He removes his coat and slides it over Dean’s shoulder as he speaks. “You were stunning. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. I enjoyed myself immensely and I hope you did too.” 

Dean hesitates. “I did, but—” Castiel’s eyes flash. He stops whatever he’s doing in the locker to put his full attention on Dean, all up in his space with both hands threading into Dean’s own and everything. “Whoa, hey, I’m cool, sweetheart,” Dean reassures him and Castiel relaxes, but only minutely. His face still looks like he wants to smite whatever might have mildly inconvenienced Dean, just on principle. 

“You can tell me if I want too far, Dean. Or if you didn’t enjoy—”

“Pump the breaks.” Dean steps in, cutting Castiel off before he can get on a tear. “That’s not what I said, alright? It rocked, I had an _awesome_ time. Hear me? I would tell you.” He’s careful to maintain eye contact, to touch Castiel’s chin gently to convey that he’s sincere, that he’s being honest. “C’mon, Cas, kiss me and tell me if I’m lying.” 

There’s a pause where Castiel narrows his eyes before leaning forward to close the scant space between them. This kiss is ridiculously soft, sweet and careful but still thorough and with an edge of heat. It has Dean following after Castiel’s mouth for more when he pulls away. 

“Alright,” Castiel concedes. “I believe you.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “What I was _saying,_ is that playing in public is one thing, but I’m pretty sure I’m a ‘private finish’ kind of guy, if you catch my drift.” His fingers drift down Castiel’s exposed forearms, stupidly longing to be wrapped in them, which is the damn point. “This feels—wrong, I guess. I wanna be doing what we usually do.” 

“Yelling at each other about who got cracker crumbs in the sheets?” 

“Yes,” Dean replies seriously, and Castiel laughs as he closes up the trenchcoat, leaning in to kiss Dean again when he runs out of buttons to fasten at the top. 

“I agree,” he says simply. “Not to mention, I need to give your injuries quite a bit more attention before we go to sleep. If you only knew the anxiety I feel at allowing you to walk around like this…” Cas’ eyes go a little wide, so Dean squeezes his hand reassuringly before grabbing and stepping into his boots, declining to lace them up before starting for the door.

“I’m okay,” Dean reassures Cas, lifting up his hand to press lips to Cas’ knuckles and inadvertently catching the edge of his new ring. “Love you,” he murmurs, and for whatever reason, that makes Castiel flush.

“I love you very much,” he says in reply, scrubbing a hand across his pink-cheeked face. The bouncers at the front doors hold them open so that Dean and Cas can exit, and while they murmur polite goodnights, their eyes never leave each others’. 

As the doors swing closed behind them, Dean says, “Mushy shit aside, I’m _damn_ glad we brought my Baby. No way your piece of shit would let me lay on my stomach in the backseat. Cas, you’re rich, when the hell are you gonna upgrade that Pimpmobile?” 

Castiel just swats his ass in reply.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One to go, and it's the full-circle happily ever after these two deserve. :-P
> 
> If you like this fic, would you consider rec'ing it somewhere? it is the best way to show love. <3


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All's well that ends well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thank you so much to everyone who came on this journey with me, and for all your kudos and comments, they mean so much. I hope you all enjoyed it and that you dig the resolution. 
> 
> Major, major thanks to [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses) and [CoinofStone](https://coinofstone.tumblr.com/), not just for the editing but for the feedback and encouragement and also their willingness to tell me when something sucks or just doesn't work because I am an asshole and we all know that's not an easy job. You guys are the best.
> 
> Also thanks once again to Lindsay, aka LadyRandomBox, @wingsandimpalas and @dragonsgotenks for the lovely art edits, you guys are amazing.
> 
> Chapter-specific warnings: semi-public sex, cock cages, hair-pulling, edging, lapdances, strip clubs, gags, misuse of Castiel's tie, spanking, light choking, overstimulation, oral sex, face-fucking, plugs, body shots.

__

_One Year Later_

Whoever said long-term relationships and marriage are boring, that chemistry dies and intimacy becomes increasingly dull and distant between partners as time goes on, never met Castiel and Dean. 

The rust-stained sink of the strip club bathroom groans beneath Dean’s hands as he shifts his weight forward, though not as loudly as Dean himself does. Behind him, Castiel has his fiancé bent forward nearly in half, legs kicked wide where he stands between them. This space is as nasty as Castiel remembers it being from Sam and Jess’ own pre-wedding party, but that only adds to the excitement. He and Dean have been too spoiled for too long—they _need_ this. 

Biting down on his bottom lip, Castiel doesn’t even _try_ to stifle his own noises of appreciation as he watches himself slide in and out of Dean’s ass easily. The soft, round cheeks bracketing his cock are still bright pink from the spanking Castiel doled out before deciding to fuck him, and just for fun, Castiel raises his hand and brings it down hard once again. The slapping sound his palm makes when it connects with Dean’s skin seems to echo off of the dingy tile, and Castiel grins at Dean’s responding whimper.

“How badly do you need to come?” Castiel asks casually, still thrusting and in fact—he pulls Dean’s cheeks apart wide with both hands, growling in approval at both the improved view and Dean’s quiet grunt as he fucks him deeper.

“Mmrph,” Dean replies, and Castiel’s smile widens as he releases one ass cheek so that he can reach out and jerk Dean’s head back roughly by his hair. His submissive is sweaty and pliant, but of course, yanking his head around doesn’t get Castiel the reply he’s after, because Dean is extremely well gagged. With Dean’s face tipped back, Castiel can confirm that he still has the whole of Castiel’s favorite blue tie stuffed inside that smart mouth. He’ll miss it—but this sight is well worth the loss. 

“Shame you can’t tell me,” Castiel muses, pressing his hips forward to bury himself as deeply inside Dean as he can possibly get. Meanwhile, he’s reaching around to finger the metal cock cage that’s still holding his sub hostage, eliciting _quite_ the whimper when he does. “I imagine this must be exceedingly uncomfortable for you by now. You’ve spent, what? Two and a half, three hours receiving lap dance after lap dance? To think of all that sweet friction you must’ve endured.”

Castiel’s teasing but not exaggerating—after all, this is _their_ co-bachelor party, there was no way he wasn’t going to make it incredibly memorable. A repeat of the stunt he’d pulled the last time they were here seemed perfectly in order, although this time, Castiel had topped it off with something Dean never saw coming: a lap dance from Castiel himself. 

And Dean is easy—Castiel knew he wouldn’t even have to get naked to drive him out of his mind. It was as easy as paying for half an hour in the Champagne room, but without the accompanying strippers. Surprisingly, not an uncommon request, according to the club’s management. Worth every penny, at any rate, just to see the look on Dean’s face when _Castiel_ walked in and the music turned on.

While it’s true that he and Dean have done a great number of depraved and dirty things together—most of them twice and several of them with an audience—for whatever reason, this was different. Castiel’s never witnessed Dean _so_ obviously turned on as in _that_ moment, and to see it was surprisingly relationship-affirming. 

It made Castiel feel powerful, _wanted_. Not that Dean ever makes him feel otherwise, but that was just not a reaction Castiel would have expected _his_ presence to provoke in a _strip club._ Not when Dean was undoubtedly expecting some hot young thing with assets Castiel just doesn’t have on offer to walk through the door instead. And with him wearing a t-shirt and jeans, no less.

One wouldn’t think—except, perhaps he should. Since the day they confessed their feelings for each other, Dean’s never made any bones about the fact that he only wants Castiel. Appreciative as he may be for other form and function, whether it be porn or a particularly sexy display at the club, Dean really does go out of his way to both show and tell Castiel that _he_ is the thing that lights Dean’s fire. 

Those sentimental thoughts _almost_ have Castiel feeling guilty for torturing Dean so. For lining up every dancer in the place to grind in his lap and then rounding out the party by doing the same. It makes his dick harder than it already is inside Dean’s ass to think about how they played inside that private room together—it was certainly the precursor to coming in here and ripping Dean’s pants off.

The way Dean had put his hands on Castiel’s body as he rocked his hips with the beat, ass rolling over Dean’s thighs. The possessiveness with which Dean had pulled Castiel’s back flush against his chest, tucked his face over Castiel’s shoulder and into his neck, spread his own legs wide and invited whatever havoc he knew Castiel would wreak. All the while knowing he was wearing that cage and that he’d pay for it.

In the present, Castiel shivers, bracing his hand on Dean’s shoulder to find the shirt he’s wearing damp underneath his palm. He slows his thrusts, contemplating his next move. It’s hardly a break for Dean—the position they’re in just causes Castiel’s cock to drag more slowly over his prostate and he whines through the gag, legs shaking a little as they struggle to continue holding him up. It’s a delicious feeling, all of that power and control. It’s also a gorgeous sight, and one that Castiel imagines he’ll think about shamelessly when Dean is standing across from him at the altar tomorrow, dressed like a proper gentleman in his perfectly-fitting tux. 

Sliding a hand up Dean’s neck and across his throat, Castiel tightens his fingers, lightly restricting Dean’s ability to breathe freely, especially through the gag. “Color,” he demands, and Dean’s hand fumbles for Castiel’s thigh, only to tap twice, _green._ “Three to safeword,” Castiel reminds him, and then wraps an arm around Dean’s belly for leverage before hoisting him up by the neck and resuming fucking him hard and fast. 

With that shift in the mood, Dean doesn’t even try to restrain himself from making noises any longer. His head lolls back against Castiel’s shoulder, the edge of the sink digging into his thighs. He moans and cries and chokes, all of his sounds vaguely muffled by the fabric in his mouth as Castiel chases his own orgasm and comes with several rough slaps of his skin against Dean’s and a low moan. 

The tie is pulled free from Dean’s mouth just as soon as Castiel is done, even before he moves to recover the plug and shove it back inside Dean’s ass. He flips Dean around, needing to grab and steady him on his feet, dazed and messy as he is. His pretty sub is plied full of alcohol and raging hormones and by some miracle, _still_ so damn perfect for Castiel. 

_How on earth did he get so lucky?_

As Castiel examines Dean’s throat, checking for marks or damage, green eyes blink down at him slowly, squeezing shut for a moment before lazily opening again. Dean’s pink tongue darts out to wet his lips. In front of him, Castiel “accidentally” shifts his hips forward as he stuffs himself back into his pants and does up his belt, causing his thigh to rub against Dean’s poor, caged cock. Dean winces. 

“Dean,” Castiel says casually, almost distractedly, making a show of continuing to check him over before continuing. “Would you like your wedding present, now?” 

Clearly somewhat out of it, Dean just raises his eyebrows and shrugs. Castiel doesn’t fail to notice the way his left hand repeatedly creeps towards his crotch, being tugged surreptitiously away at the last second when Dean’s brain catches up to his aching body’s demands. He has to be in _misery._

“Just say yes,” Castiel encourages gently, cupping Dean’s jaw and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. It’s softer than anything else that’s passed between them this entire night.

“Yes, Sir,” Dean replies weakly, slumping back against the sink. Very clearly, he is not expecting relief.

“Very well.” With a smirk, Castiel reaches down to free Dean’s cock, careful to remove the cage quickly and to give Dean a moment to recover. He doesn’t disappoint—groaning gratuitously and nearly doubling over. Both hands go flying to his groin, but Castiel is there to catch him, to thread an arm around his back and hold him up. 

“Oh, _God,_ ” Dean cries, legs trembling and breath coming in near-gasps when Castiel gets a hand around his thickening length and gently gives him the friction he’s so desperately craving. 

“Still Cas,” he says mildly, outwardly unbothered by Dean’s absolutely ruined state. “Or Sir, to you.” 

Dean makes a noise that could possibly be an attempt to say, _“Sir,”_ or maybe, “ _f_ _uck you,”_ but they’ll never know because it’s muffled terribly against Castiel’s throat. As both of his hands fist wildly into Castiel’s shirt, Dean’s mouth stays open and wet on his skin. Castiel cradles him close, can feel the way his muscles jump, unsure whether he wants to lean into the (over)stimulation or rip his body away. Lost to sensation, Dean’s tongue darts out near Cas’ pulse point, the heat of the air from Dean’s lungs puffing hot over the saliva it leaves behind. 

In his arms, Dean _moans_ , flinching but rocking his hips forward anyway when Castiel gathers precum from the tip of his cock and spreads it around. Slowly, he begins to relax, but Castiel’s not an idiot—Dean’s not going to last, no man could be expected to after all he’s been through. He’d let Dean penetrate him, but he’s not sure the man currently has the strength and stamina to stay vertical on his own right now, never mind _fuck_. 

No, Castiel is going to have to take matters into his own hands. 

While Dean whimpers and sways, Castiel quickly shoves him backward and up onto the counter next to the sink before he can fall over completely. With a quick grasp under his lovely thighs, Castiel heaves Dean up and spreads his legs before ducking between them and taking nearly all of Dean’s cock deep into his throat without reservation. Dean’s scent is musky from sweating through everything Castiel’s subjected him to tonight, and his taste on Castiel’s tongue is thick with salt, backed with the bitter tang of his release. 

Unable to stop himself, Dean nearly sobs when he’s abruptly thrust into the wet heat of his Dom’s mouth, throwing his head back and hitting the mirror with a _crack,_ though it doesn’t faze him in the least. He tightens his thighs around Castiel’s head, and Castiel has to fight his arms through to pin them back down, lest he be suffocated. 

_It would not be a terrible way to go,_ he thinks.

When he looks up, Dean’s got an arm thrown across his face, though there are tear tracks visible at the bottom of his cheeks. His chest is heaving and his free hand is hovering _just_ above Castiel’s head, fingers flexing and releasing while he barely resists the urge to grab, to _take_. Castiel pops off of him with a slurping sound, dips down to mouth at his balls and lick around the base of his dick. Satisfied with the way Dean tenses but still doesn’t touch him, Castiel purses his lips and takes _just_ the crown of Dean’s cock between them, sucking gently. 

Above him, Dean’s mouth drops open and his head tilts back, and Castiel’s never been sorrier that he doesn’t have a camera handy. The line of his throat, long and damp with sweat, has never looked more enticing. Dean’s body shakes beneath him and Castiel refocuses, reaching up to grab Dean’s hand and plant it firmly in his hair, pressing down and sending himself down with it. 

“Oh, _fuck yes, Sir,"_ Dean yells as he’s given free rein to pull Castiel’s hair and shove his face down into his crotch. It’s a reward Dean deserves, and Castiel does his damndest to let him use it to his heart’s content. He relaxes his jaw, breathes through his nose, and allows Dean to fuck his face enthusiastically. 

The whole night has essentially been foreplay and Dean has been perfection like Castiel hardly believed existed in the world, so it’s no surprise that it’s barely two minutes of this before his hips are stuttering, his muscles are clenching, and there’s hot cum spilling violently down Castiel’s throat. 

Calmly, while Dean hollers and cries, Castiel closes his lips around the width of him, simultaneously removing Dean’s hand from his head as he swallows and works him through the tremors. Devilishly, he also makes sure to lick the last drops of spend clean from Dean’s slit when he’s done, flicking his tongue an extra pass around the head in the process. After all, Castiel can’t resist the chance to torture Dean just a _little_ more, relishing the way he jerks and thrashes at the mere threat of continued overstimulation. 

When Castiel straightens up, Dean doesn’t even pretend to move, just stays splayed out provocatively on the countertop with his pants dangling off of one ankle. His neck is bent at a strange angle so that he can lean against the mirror, his shirt is rucked to high heaven, and he’s breathing like he just ran a marathon, sweat sheen covering every inch of visible skin. 

_Again,_ Castiel laments his lack of foresight with the camera—even his iPhone is out at the table with Sam, since he hadn’t wanted to bring it into the Champagne room. On top of that, what happened to Dean’s phone is also anyone’s guess. Castiel hasn’t seen it all night and that’s a damn shame right about now.

“Good gift,” Dean croaks, flashing a thumbs up that also gives Castiel a glimpse of the collar wrapped around his left wrist _and_ the ring on his finger. Suddenly, Castiel’s feeling warm for an entirely different reason, and he responds by leaning forward to scoop Dean up and hug him tight. 

“I’m very grateful for you,” he says gruffly, pulling back to find Dean smiling dopily, staring up at him with an eyebrow raised.

“Gettin’ sappy on me, Cas?”

“No,” Castiel denies, crouching down to grab the waist of Dean’s jeans and pull them over his free foot. “Come, let’s get you semi-presentable—I think fully may be a lost cause at this point.”

“You should talk,” Dean snorts, pointing to Castiel’s hair. With a start, Castiel looks up and into the mirror, which he’s mostly ignored until now, and _oh._ He looks nearly as bad as if he’d been intentionally styled to appear like he stuck a fork into a light socket. Leaving Dean to sort out his own pants, Castiel scowls and runs the water in the sink, sticking his head underneath until the top of his head is properly soaked. His hair is next level unruly, but even it can’t survive a drowning.

Once he’s satisfied, Castiel flips his hair backward. The movement causes water to spray everywhere, including over Dean. He yelps, flinches, and glares, but then seems to realize that the coolness feels good and hops off the counter to do the same. Castiel pretends he doesn’t notice the way Dean wobbles on his feet, still unsteady. It is, after all, the night before their wedding—he can give Dean a break just this once.

Freshly rinsed and (sort-of) coiffed, the two of them face each other, straightening out clothing and brushing off imaginary dirt and dust until they both look as presentable as they’re going to get. 

“What would you like to do now?” Castiel asks, figuring he’ll leave it up to Dean whether they rejoin the party or sneak off to return home and fall into bed together. To _sleep,_ this time. They do need to get _some_. It’s late, and perhaps Castiel should be more worried about that than he is, but they only get to do this once. Plus, their ceremony tomorrow is an evening one—really, they should have plenty of time to rest and recover, even if they do continue partying for a while longer. 

“Oh, ho,” Dean says triumphantly, like he knows something Castiel doesn’t. “Suppose you forgot, too busy making my night hell to remember your promises.” He grins at Castiel and waits, while Castiel frowns and wracks his brain for whatever he’s missing.

“I— _Oh,_ the shots.” 

“Yep!” Dean declares happily. 

“I completely forgot,” Castiel admits, honestly. When they’d planned this night over three months prior, Dean had bet that Castiel couldn’t (wouldn’t) make it through a night out at the strip club without succumbing to fucking Dean in the bathroom. The prize? Body shots, which Castiel would absolutely _not_ give Dean the satisfaction of doing (in public) before. 

Man enough to admit when he’s been bested, Castiel sighs and gestures for Dean to head back out there. A man of his word, he’s already preparing to pay up by untucking his just-fixed shirt once again. 

“Fuck yes,” Dean hisses, pumping his fist and near-skipping out the bathroom door. Truly, Castiel does not see the appeal of forcing the person you love to lie down on top of a sticky, gross bar so one can suck liquor from various body parts. But a bet is a bet, and just between him and the moon, Castiel wouldn’t have done anything differently if he’d remembered. He maintains that it’s stupid, though—they could just as easily go home, where Dean could lick whatever parts of Castiel he wishes to his heart’s content. 

Loving someone apparently means sacrifice, so Castiel follows his _far_ too giddy fiancé across the room and climbs up onto the bar without so much as having to be told. Sam and Charlie are already there, refreshing drinks for the table, and Castiel doesn’t miss the way Sam wrinkles his nose when he sees the state (and maybe the smell) of both of them. 

“I need to be _way_ drunker for this,” Sam mutters, signaling the bartender for an extra shot before high-tailing it back to their table. 

“You gonna judge me too?” Dean asks Charlie, shooting her an epic serving of faux-grumpy side-eye as Castiel lays down and rucks up his shirt.

“Hell, no!” Charlie exclaims. “I’m here to aggressively cheer all public displays of ‘that gay shit’ on. Also, I got next with Cas! The body shots, not the—” 

“You most certainly do not,” Castiel replies flatly, shifting against the bartop uncomfortably before hollowing out his stomach in preparation to be a living cup. _Stupid._ “My hair is adhering to this surface. If I’m bald in our wedding photos, you cannot complain.” 

Down by his knees, Charlie laughs so hard she snorts, choking on the sip of beer she was attempting to swallow as the bartender appears on Castiel’s other side. In his hand, a tequila bottle is poised for action. 

“We’ll just make sure they shoot you front-facing,” Dean quips amiably, shaking some salt onto the bottom of Castiel’s rib cage and shoving a lime slice pulp-side out into his mouth before he can protest.

“Mmph,” Castiel retorts.

“Now you sound like me,” Dean says quietly, tossing Castiel a wink before dipping down and licking the salt in a stripe off of his chest. He follows quickly by lowering his lips to Castiel’s stomach and slurping out the liquor, taking the time to swirl his tongue around in a way that Castiel is _almost_ able to appreciate—give him another ten minutes. He hopes Dean will be ready to head out of here by then, anyway. 

When he’s done consuming the shot, Dean leans up and pulls the lime slice from between Castiel’s lips with his own mouth, sucking the juice out noisily before letting the rind drop onto the floor. 

Across the bar, the bartender sighs and rolls his eyes, but Castiel barely notices because Dean’s slipping a hand behind his head, pulling him close and kissing him with both fire and tenderness. His mouth burns with alcohol and acid, and Castiel’s a sucker for the way they taste on Dean. Unable to stop himself, Castiel lets out his own little sigh and leans into the sweet display of affection, regretful when Dean pulls away. His expression is soft when he does, though, and Castiel just smiles dumbly up at him, truly in awe.

“Damn,” Charlie says, followed by a whistle. “Maybe I’m only ninety-nine percent gay, not one hundred and ten like I thought. That was _dreamy._ ” 

“Hmm,” Castiel murmurs happily, still gaping stupidly up at Dean and holding his face.

“Get off my bar,” the bartender snaps. Castiel quickly hops down.

Thankfully, his previous prayers are answered and Dean _does_ want to head out after that. The whole party ends up going with them, which means Castiel and Dean finally get to utilize the party bus they paid for, unlike last time. The ride to drop everyone off at their various stops is fun, full of music and dancing (and more drinking). Jess and Meg are a wild mess and keep trying to make out with each other, which Sam can’t seem to decide if he wants to stop or encourage. After several failed attempts to either separate them or get in the middle, he ends up washing his hands of both and falling into a rather serious-looking conversation with Dean.

That leaves Castiel stuck sitting in the back of the bus between two people he never thought he’d get in the same room together ever again, never mind on a _party_ bus leaving a strip club. He’s torn between seizing the moment to talk things out and hoping desperately that one of his and Dean’s work friends picks that moment to start vomiting violently. As a paramedic, it would be his sworn duty to tend to them and to _not_ continue forcing uncomfortable small talk. 

No such luck; Victor and Ash both look like they could go ten more rounds with a bottle of Jack and Jo—well, Jo was always going to drink them all under the table. 

At least Claire had the decency to decline the invite to the strip club—she’s an adult, of course, but Castiel can’t help that he still sees the tiny, curly-haired little girl he helped raise every time he looks at her. Although, Claire’s never flinched at an opportunity to make Castiel uncomfortable, so he thinks it’s probably likely her absence has a lot more to do with who is currently sitting to his left. And perhaps, even, who is sitting to his right.

“Great party, Cassie!” Gabriel declares, slapping Castiel’s shoulder casually with the arm he has draped across his back. “That guy really loosened you up, made you _way_ more fun than I remember. Hell, I might’ve come back years ago if I’d known you had strip club potential. You too, Jimbo,” Gabriel adds, leaning over Castiel so that he can poke Jimmy in the ribs, the lollipop stick hanging haphazardly from his mouth nearly taking out Castiel’s eye. 

“Yeah, well, I’m here for Cas,” Jimmy mumbles. Castiel eyes him with concern. The guy is wearing his Reverend’s collar and is almost completely sober, but he doesn’t look _entirely_ miserable which is better than Castiel might have expected in these circumstances. He reaches out to squeeze his twin’s hand in thanks.

“It wasn’t too terrible?” he asks quietly. Jimmy looks over at him and smiles.

“Nah,” he replies. “Everyone was very… welcoming. Friendly. And the dancers were very respectful.”

Gabriel snorts and leans back against the leather seat, crossing one leg over the other by setting his right calf obnoxiously on his left knee. “I take it back. You have not changed one damn bit, brother.” 

“It’s not like I can’t say the same about you,” Jimmy retorts, but there’s really no heat in his words. He slouches against Castiel’s side, but his expression isn’t as hard as it might be, so Castiel retains the hope that they’ll all get through this relatively unscathed. _Perhaps—_ if they can all manage to stow their bullshit temporarily—they’ll emerge even better than they were going in. 

God knows, Castiel and Jimmy have been holding each other at arm’s length for years now, and Gabriel—Gabriel’s just been _gone._ It’s clear that they all want to leave their troubled childhood and the uncertainty of early adulthood in their past, but they’re grown now. There’s no reason they can’t have a future where they simply accept each other for who they are and where they’re at.

 _A happy ending_ , Castiel thinks wistfully, as the siblings across the way catch his attention again. Both Winchesters are sat turned into each other on the bus’ long bench seat, the world around them seemingly forgotten as they converse. _After all,_ Sam and Dean had a far worse experience growing up than any of the Novaks—and they’re as close as siblings can be. They even carry their abusive father’s name, a burden Castiel doesn’t share, and they’re… unbothered by it. Castiel finds that he admires their resilience even more so now, wants to study how they managed it, to learn their secrets for himself. 

For now, he’ll just have to be grateful for what he has, which is as new a start as his blood family is going to get. “Thank you both for being here,” he says softly, reaching out to put a hand on each of his brothers’. He’s never bothered to be vulnerable with either of them before, and Castiel thinks it’s past time that he starts taking that page from Dean. “It means… It means a lot to me to have you both here, to have your support. I—I’ve been guilty of focusing on the wrong things, in the past. The money, I know that’s a point of—of contention—”

Castiel’s cut off by Gabriel snorting again and squeezing his shoulder, but his voice when he speaks is uncharacteristically soft. “Not like you had any kind of role model to teach you priorities,” he says. On Castiel’s other side, Jimmy nods in agreement, and those two being on the same page is enough to render Castiel speechless. 

“You’ve done well for yourself,” Jimmy chimes in. “I think we all have. The money is…” He shakes his head. “Well, I think we all know it’s there if we need it.” 

“I’ll never touch it,” Gabriel declares. “Screw dear old Mom and Pop and all they never did for us.” He raises his glass and nudges Castiel until he picks up his half-drunk bottle of beer and begrudgingly does the same. To his surprise, Jimmy joins in, though his glass is definitely filled with seltzer, maybe a twist of lime if he’s feeling wild.

“Screw ‘em,” Jimmy declares solemnly, clinking his glass to Castiel’s forcefully enough that it hits Gabriel’s, too. “To us,” he adds. “To Cas.” 

“To Cas,” Gabriel echoes enthusiastically. “And that hot piece of ass he’s somehow managed to brainwash into marrying him.” He wiggles his eyebrows and laughs before tipping most of his drink into his mouth. Castiel shakes his head, but he can’t stop smiling. 

On the other side of the bus, Dean looks up in time to catch his eye and wink, raising his hand almost shyly in a wave, which Castiel returns. 

“You two are disgusting,” Jimmy comments. “I’m so happy for you.” 

“Yes,” Castiel replies, agreeably, looking around to take in his drunken family and friends, truly beginning to absorb how lucky he really is. Would _any_ of this be possible, would _any_ of it be _his_ if it weren’t for Dean? Castiel’s not a dramatic man, but he can’t imagine that would be the case. 

Being Dean’s best friend was always quite wonderful—skirting the edges of being included in his family was bliss.

But this—this is _real,_ and not just that, but it’s really _his._ Not something peripherally shared with him out of pity, but to which he doesn’t actually belong. This is _his_ husband, his siblings—Sam and Jess included—his family, both blood and chosen, brought together finally in a way Castiel badly hopes will stay. 

They’ll work on it, _he’ll_ work on it. God knows, Dean’s shown him how, shown him why it matters so much that they try. 

Feeling overwhelmed with love and appreciation for Dean, Castiel touches his fingers to his lips and mimes blowing him a small kiss. In response, Dean looks as if his smile might break his face in half. 

“ _Disgusting,”_ Jimmy reiterates, with feeling. 

Yes, Castiel believes they’re all going to be just fine.

***

Jimmy’s church is modest, an incredibly old building with very little funding and not as much community support as it deserves, considering how accepting they are of anyone who wishes to attend. Despite that, Castiel’s never made himself a home here, never _quite_ been able to reconcile the God Jimmy believes in with the state of the world and how badly so many “Christians” treat both others and each other. It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to believe, Castiel just can’t help but feel that God—if there really is one—left them all behind a long time ago, and that people like Jimmy are just talking to the empty sky. 

The church itself is very pretty, though, with tall, elaborate stained glass windows that spill multi-colored light onto the worn pews, even in the early evening. There’s also the fact that it means something to Jimmy to be able to marry his brother here, which Castiel can’t argue with. And Dean could not care less either way—his exact words were, “that means it’s free, right?” 

So here they are. 

Ceremony-wise, this wedding is nothing like Sam and Jessica’s ultra-traditional affair. Technically, they both have groomsmen and bridesmaids, but none of them are walking down the aisle. They’re all already seated in the first two rows of pews in front of the altar, and there are plenty of other people behind them who are just as important to both Dean and Cas. Found family, friends, even co-workers they share. This is one _big_ family, coming together officially—but a family that already exists, nonetheless. There have never been “sides”, they’re certainly not going to create any now.

The two doors that swing wide to the sanctuary are currently closed, leaving Dean and Cas alone in the little foyer, awaiting their walking music to start. Since Bobby and Ellen are the closest thing to parents either groom has anymore, the engaged duo also made the decision to forgo either of them being escorted down the aisle (and either of them waiting at the end). While Ellen likely would have been more than happy to walk with each of them one at a time, even that much formality felt silly and not fitting to the vibe they were looking for today. 

This, this hand-in-hand, “tackling it together” thing—this makes sense. What _doesn’t_ is how he feels, waiting.

If Castiel had someone willing to take the bet, he would have put money on Dean being the nervous one. Whenever he pictured this moment, it was with Dean jittering out of his skin and Castiel stepping briefly into Dom-mode to calm him back down. 

But that isn’t the case.

Beside Castiel, Dean is the very picture of strength and calm. He’s been wearing the same serene, _happy_ smile nearly constantly since they woke up this morning, and nothing seems to faze him. Dressed in his perfectly-fitting tux with his hair neatly combed, he stands with Castiel’s hand clutched firmly in his own, just waiting patiently. 

Castiel can hardly believe his own eyes. Dean’s foot doesn’t tap, his fingers don’t pick, his teeth don’t chew at his cheek and bottom lip. Even with his collar around his wrist (tucked safely beneath his dress shirt), it’s entirely un-Dean-like, and Castiel isn’t entirely certain he shouldn’t be offended. After all, _he’s_ a nervous damn wreck. So much so that it’s a wonder his palm doesn’t slide right off of Dean’s from all the sweat. 

_Very sexy, very_ not _repulsive. Exactly what you want from your fiancé on your wedding day._

“Relax, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs. 

“How can I?” Castiel huffs, yanking his hand away and folding his arms across his chest. The fabric of his tux jacket doesn’t stretch very well, and standing this way is disagreeable. Still, Castiel persists, because not only is he irritated, but he has a _point_ to make to his _irrationally calm_ almost-husband. “This is only one of the biggest moments in our entire lives. You were more nervous the day we picked out the pie flavors for the reception!” 

“Yeah, well, pie is life, Cas.” 

With a snort, Castiel turns away, wondering what the hell the delay is with their music. The sooner they can get this over with, the sooner Castiel can take Dean into a closet and ensure he leaves uncomfortable enough to avoid sitting for the remainder of the evening. Serves him right for being so damn cavalier. 

Alright, that’s probably not the attitude he should be going into this with but— _oh._ A sudden, incredibly distressing realization brings Castiel up short, and he’s glad he’s facing the wall so that Dean can’t see his face. _Fuck. Oh, fuck._ As his breath quickens and his heart speeds up in his chest, Castiel is forced to deal with the increasingly unavoidable awareness that _he_ is the _Dean_ in this situation, today. 

He hates it. 

For all the time he’s spent reassuring Dean that anxiety and vulnerability are not weaknesses, that there is _no shame_ in needing external support and an outlet, Castiel has always prided himself on his ability to keep his shit together. The way his cool head effortlessly prevails in a crisis. How he never allows his _emotions_ to rule his behavior, no matter how intense they might be or how tempting it may feel to lash out. 

And yet, here he is, on their wedding day, not only _doing_ that very thing but failing to even recognize it. 

An apology is on the tip of his tongue when Castiel turns around, but Dean is _right_ there, smiling that stupid calm smile and stepping into Castiel’s space like he’s entirely sure of his welcome. Despite his knee-jerk desire to grumble and pull away and lean into the discomfort he feels, Castiel _knows—rationally,_ anyway _—_ that this is fear talking, and that the only way out is through.

So when Dean cups his face, leans in and presses soft, comforting lips to his, Castiel allows himself to relax into him. “You’re being stupid,” Dean says, right against his mouth, and Castiel doesn’t argue. 

“The question is, why are you _not_ being stupid?” Castiel retorts. “I’m appropriately anxious to the situation and you—”

“ _—_ Have wanted to marry you for way longer than I let on,” Dean admits easily, sliding an arm around Castiel’s waist and pulling him in close, swaying them both gently back and forth. “Sorry, Cas,” he adds with a little laugh and a shrug before trailing more kisses over Castiel’s jaw. “I ain’t scared at all about tying myself to you. You know, all of my worst nightmares—back when we were running circles around each other? Every single one of them was about losing you. What I’d have left when you were gone, when you decided it was time to move on.” 

“You never told me,” Castiel says softly, moving his grip on Dean from his hips to his back and holding on tight. He drops his face to Dean’s shoulder and lets himself continue to be swayed. 

Dean hums thoughtfully in his ear. “Yeah, well, telling you now.” He pauses, takes a deep breath that Castiel can feel against his own chest. “I’m not scared,” he repeats. “Because I know that you love me. I know we’re going to continue building an awesome life together. Why the hell would I be scared? And on that note, I ain’t worried about your nerves, either. You do whatever you need to do, feel your wrong fucking feelings, rock out with whatever goofy shit you’re gonna do. Just… walk down that aisle with me anyway, okay? Fucking come home with me tonight and let me—let me keep loving you, Cas. Alright?” 

Tucked up against Dean’s shoulder, Castiel blinks back tears even as a little laugh escapes his mouth. “Of course, Dean,” he says softly. “There was never any question of that.” 

“I know,” Dean replies, pressing another kiss to the top of his head roughly and clearing his throat. “Yeah, I know.” 

Beyond their private little space, the music starts, and to Castiel’s surprise, he actually feels a lot better. Dean pulls back, holds him at arm’s length by the shoulders and eyes him with concern. “You good?” he asks, before gesturing to the closed door. “‘Cause I can—”

“I’m good,” Castiel assures him, to Dean’s obvious relief. He holds out his hand again, and Dean takes it, his smile even wider than before. 

Their ceremony feels anticlimactic, after that. Of course, they go through the motions, exchanging their engagement rings as wedding bands after Jimmy blesses them. But as far as Castiel’s concerned—Dean was right, in more way than one. They’re already as married as it gets, there’s nothing to _be_ nervous about here. And the things Dean told him before they walked down the aisle, well—those are vows if Castiel’s ever heard them. 

Dean, apparently, feels the same.

When it comes time to exchange their official ones, as Castiel stands by, Dean pulls a folded piece of paper with lots of messy, scratched out handwriting on it from his pocket. He stares down at whatever it says for a moment, hesitates, and then crumples the paper up, tossing it over his shoulder. Castiel cocks his head to the side in question, but when Dean meets his gaze, he smiles and holds out both hands, which Castiel gladly takes. When he speaks, Castiel understands.

“Cas, thank you for loving me,” is all Dean says, and all he needs to say. 

Castiel smiles widely. “Thank you for showing me how.”

When they don’t say anything else, a confused Jimmy eventually pronounces them married to a chorus of slightly-delayed cheers and clapping, but Castiel is too busy kissing Dean to pay anyone else any mind. 

***

At the end of the night, after cake, pie, a _lot_ of dancing both slow and wild, plus the removal of a garter from Kaia’s leg by Claire—who won the right fair and square by jumping off of a chair and nearly onto Ash’s head to catch it—that has both Castiel and Jimmy wishing for eye bleach, the reception winds to its natural end. As Castiel waits for Dean to return from tipping their vendors, he scans the room and takes stock of their guests.

Interestingly enough, Gabriel and Meg seem to have struck up a familiarity that suggests neither will be ending the night alone. Castiel vaguely considers warning his brother, but as well as he knows Gabriel, he’s sure he can hold his own. And if he’s secretly hoping an entanglement with Meg might draw his nomadic family member back closer to home, Castiel can hardly be blamed for that. 

_Happy endings all around,_ he thinks, and then shudders at the accidental double entendre he’d be very pleased to never contemplate on again. Thankfully, Dean appears out of nowhere to distract him, giving the “okay” for them to start to head out.

There are so many people to _hug_ before you’re allowed to leave your own wedding reception. That’s something Castiel didn’t plan for, but he’s not sorry about it either. Every person he embraces and thanks is a reminder of how _lucky_ he is, how wide his roots really spread here. From Bobby, Ellen, and Jo to Sam and Jess (and Jess’ barely-showing baby bump), to Jody and Donna, Charlie and Meg, both of his brothers and his niece, and all of his and Dean’s co-workers, lining the way out. 

Just outside the reception hall, Victor has Engine 15 parked and blocking the road with its emergency lights flashing. The exterior of the truck is decked out with string lights and crepe paper, among other shiny bells and baubles, plus a _giant_ sign strung across the back that’s sporting cartoon flames and proclaims, “Just Married!” The station is right down the street, and the truck will carry them there to where Dean’s Baby is waiting to whisk them away to a cabin in the mountains for a secluded, romantic honeymoon.

The two of them exit the building to a shower of rice and drunken hollering, and Castiel’s never been so damn happy. With arms wrapped around each other’s waists, he and Dean make a run for it under the spray, laughing and ducking their heads, lest they end up with rice in their eyes. Dean climbs onto the back of the engine first and then holds out his hand, dragging Castiel up with him and wrapping an arm around his back, presumably to keep him safe when they start to move.

As the truck pulls away, their family and friends wave and cheer, and Victor blasts the siren. It’s all somewhat cheesy for Castiel’s taste, but the way Dean looks with rice in his messy hair and color in his cheeks, wearing the biggest smile he has in his arsenal on his face, Castiel wouldn’t trade this memory for anything. 

They hold onto each other as the truck picks up speed and the crowd gets smaller and smaller behind them.

“So,” Dean says, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the Engine. “What’s next?” 

Castiel thinks for a moment, and then grins. “What’s your safeword, Mr. Winchester?” 

Dean looks surprised, but quickly recovers. “Impala, Mr. Winchester, Sir.”

 _God, that sounds good in Dean’s mouth._ “And… are you using it?” 

“Hell no, Sir!” 

_Onward._

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for reading and for all your comments and kudos, I love you all so much. Hit me up on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/caslostwings) or [Tumblr](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com) to see what else I'm up to or yell at me via DM!
> 
> If you liked this story and would enjoy having one of your very own, consider bidding on me in the [FicFacers'](https://www.juliahouston.com/fic-facers/fic-facers-2018archive/castielslostwings-bid-form/) auction! All proceeds go directly to Random Acts and winning bidders get to boss me around and choose their own adventure, that I will write for them! Really, a win-win. There are FIVE lots for my listing, so lots of opportunity. :) There are also a ton of other amazing creatives, including @Malmuses, so check them out.
> 
> Until next time ;)


	15. Timestamp #1: We Grow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean always says. “You can’t chase me away.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE (or maybe not if you follow me on Twitter, lol)! You thought it was over!
> 
> This 24k monster is brought to you courtesy of the amazing, incredible, generous [Jenn](https://twitter.com/WaywardCoug) who was my second winning FicFacer$ bidder! She wanted to know what would happen if Cas had to give up control to Dean over some sort of medical event with the idea that Cas would definitely not be as calm and accepting as he would have us believe with their roles reversed. She was definitely right! 
> 
> In this timestamp, we follow our favorite first responders through the action and aftermath of a very serious incident that happens to Cas. Stick around to find out how Dean copes and how they find their way back to each other when recovery isn't as simple and easy as just surviving. 
> 
> AO3 FF disclaimer: This story is not affiliated, associated, endorsed by, or in any way officially connected with Random Acts, or any of its subsidiaries or its affiliates. All donations have been paid directly to Random Acts, who do not own Supernatural or any of the characters in the stories.
> 
> A HUGE thank you to [EllenofOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) and [Jen aka CoinofStone](https://coinofstone.tumblr.com/) for editing this into coherence. The beginning of the Cas part veered way too far into expositional essay territory and THANKFULLY for y'all, these two reeled it back in. My bad.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Hurt!Castiel, graphic violence, major character injury, graphic medical descriptions/procedure, physical assault, hospital setting, tough recovery, Caregiver!Dean, caregiver-related-stress, alcohol as a coping mechanism, cabin fic (towards the end).
> 
> Sex-related warnings: Vacation sex, Top Cas/Bottom Dean, vague references to past switching, Dom Cas, Sub Dean, sex toys, sexting, edging, orgasm denial, ropes/suspension/restraint, Dean in panties, anal fingering, spanking, prostate stim, light breathplay, manhandling, coming untouched.
> 
> Song Inspo: [We Grow by Elmo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMVbZMgDzX4)

_And we grow, and we hold,  
_ _and I'll be forever._  
 _So don't you look back, t_ _ake my hand,_  
 _we'll make it happen._

“Happiness is distraction from the human tragedy.” Castiel read that quote somewhere, once, and has always thought it rang almost uncomfortably true in his own life. As a paramedic, he’s had a front row seat to the human tragedy for years—and he loves his job, finds all sorts of pleasure in it. It gives him a sense of purpose, of self-worth, makes him feel fulfilled. On a good day, that means saving lives, perhaps even changing them. It means being able to shake his patient’s hand or give them a hug, having reversed whatever dire situation they were in, stabilized a life-threatening injury, or even simply provided relief from acute pain. 

Some days, it’s as simple as that, and there’s nothing strange about enjoying those things. 

On the other hand, sometimes Castiel finds himself enjoying his job at another human being’s expense. Performing extremely difficult or technical interventions—that, by nature, are only called for on a patient’s very worst day—is a rush. 

The fact is, saving a life sometimes means carrying out a brutal procedure (or two) first. Sliding a tube between a set of vocal cords, drilling a needle into bone to start an access line, pressing a syringe into the negative space of a person’s chest to relieve mounting pressure, or setting a bone. All brutal, even in their necessity. 

It’s not that Castiel gets off on his patients’ pain, it’s simply that he’s _good_ at performing those brutal procedures, and being given the opportunity to do them is both satisfying and gratifying. It’s a strange line to walk, and not something generally discussed outside of provider circles.

Castiel is self aware enough to realize that those interventions are both a distraction and a means of taking control for the _provider,_ something that turns a terrible situation into an empowering one _._ Castiel also knows, from experience, that having to sit and _watch_ those procedures being done, to have only your thoughts about what the patient—your loved one—is going through—well, it’s _far_ worse than working the problem with your own hands. 

_Distraction._

Truthfully, _this_ is the genesis of why it is so hard for medical professionals to keep their hands off and their mouths closed when their friends and family are the patients. It’s why doctors, nurses, therapists, and paramedics all make the _worst_ patients themselves. The visceral need to insert themselves into care and care planning is frequently frustrating for the treating medical team, and is often mistaken for arrogance or ego. 

Of course, sometimes that _is_ the case, fair.

More often, though, it’s simply the manifestation of a desperate need for that usual distraction, that clinical detachment, that provider is accustomed to having. Without those things, medical professionals are stuck with reality, and a reality they know _way_ too much about to ignore. 

Any medical professional facing a crisis does so with the increased knowledge and awareness that comes with being an educated and informed customer. They are eternally burdened by not having the _luxury_ of taking comfort in ignorant bliss. Castiel knows that most providers forget to account for this when treating their peers and their peers’ family members—but he’s been there. He can’t ever forget. 

Even now, years after Dean’s accident, Castiel sometimes wakes in the middle of the night sweating and terrified. Images of the love of his life, pale and motionless in an ICU bed with a machine forcing air in and out of his lungs so that he continues to breathe, perpetually haunt his dreams. There was no blissful ignorance, no care-based distraction once the hospital took over for him and Sam, in those dark days. Just Castiel, the brown water spot on the ceiling, and a kind of fear he never knew existed. 

An event like that, or just looking down the barrel of your _own_ mortality—it’s not an easy thing for any provider to face. The idea that no matter how hard we work, sacks of meat with varying expiration dates are all we amount to at the end of the day. We are fragile, and life can hit us hard, can take all of our best laid plans and wipe them clean off the board when we’re least expecting it. 

Point being, a lack of distraction in any of those cases? It’s the opposite of fun. 

Of course, escape comes in many forms, and on-the-job distraction only lasts as long as the ambulance ride to the hospital. _Procedures_ are not coping mechanisms, and they won’t help chase away the ghosts of those whom Castiel made every effort to save and it still wasn’t enough. 

It is an inarguable fact that if Castiel didn’t have the distractions he has _outside_ of his job, it would be a much greater struggle for him to find happiness, to achieve inner peace, to shake those ghosts. Not to mention, his ability to continue getting up every morning, to step back onto the truck, to throw his heart and soul into what he does—Castiel needs more than the job itself to keep him sane enough to _do_ it. 

Thus, Castiel enthusiastically applies said quote about happiness and distraction to his extracurriculars, as well. The things he does outside of work to _forget,_ to make his mind relievedly blank and his energy carefree, to unburden himself from the weight of all that—as described—human tragedy. 

Uncomfortably true, but true nonetheless, and there are no ifs, ands, or buts about it: Castiel loves a good distraction. _Loves_ his very distracting husband, and everything they do together. 

Having been a Dom in the BDSM scene for a very long time, Castiel’s never had as fulfilling and satisfying a relationship as he does with Dean. _Before_ Dean—and without any regular submissive to turn to—Castiel was struggling endlessly to get out of his own head, to leave work at work and to not take his professional failings to heart and into his home. 

Without Dean, Castiel had frequent nightmares and difficulty sleeping. He drank too much and worked out too little, he wasn’t nearly as healthy or well-composed. He coped, he kept it together, but he wasn’t _thriving._ And Dean was the same, probably worse—that’s how they got together, after all. 

And now, just over two years into their marriage, Castiel’s never been more sure that taking up with Dean was the right thing to do. Perhaps it took longer than necessary (and required a life-threatening disaster) to force the two of them to admit to their mutual romantic feelings towards each other, but they _did_ get there eventually. More importantly, they’ve been going strong ever since. 

Today, Dean is Castiel’s best friend, his confidante, his lover, and his submissive. As previously mentioned, he’s also a delicious distraction of epic proportions, and Castiel appreciates him all the more for it. Despite their intense relationship, though, Castiel remains a professional at work. He is always extremely intentional about leaving said distractions at the door when he puts on his uniform, never allowing them to compromise his attention and focus. 

As a frontline medical provider, dramatic as it may sound, Castiel is _literally_ the thing that is standing between life and death for his patients. Well—some days, anyway. Others, he’s the thing standing between bad heartburn and a lack of cab fare. Still—allowing his mind to wander even _briefly_ away from whatever emergency situation is at hand can easily meet with disastrous results. For the patient, naturally, but in some situations, for the provider, too. 

So Castiel takes care to ensure that doesn’t happen—tempting as both his daydreams and the reality of Dean himself may be. 

On the other hand, he’s only human, and perhaps it was simply a matter of time until he broke. 

Tonight, Castiel’s not feeling particularly responsible. 

He’ll blame a number of things for that. His entire week, for starters—it’s been a perfect storm for getting sucked into distraction at an inopportune time. For seeking that brief moment of respite from “the human tragedy,” so to speak. 

It’s nothing so serious as many of the things he and Dean have been through in the past, just an agonizingly slow slog of difficult days. Their schedules have been opposite, Dean on dayshift and Cas on nights. That leaves precious little time to blow off steam together. Or even _be_ in each other’s company at all. Between the ridiculous human need to sleep and one of them being distracted by work or eating or showering while awake, it’s been tough.

In an attempt to rectify their passing like ships in the night, earlier this particular evening Dean came by Cas’ station to visit. They had every intention of at _least_ sharing a meal together, perhaps playing some poker if the EMS gods were on their side. On arrival, with greasy bags of burgers in hand, Dean was fresh off his own shift, still clad in his navy t-shirt and duty pants. He walked up smelling enticingly like sweat and oil from working under the hood of Engine Fifteen, and Castiel had a terrible, terrible time keeping his hands to himself. Dean’s hair was spiky and messy but his smile was easy, eyes crinkling at the corners when he lit up at the sight of Castiel. 

After all this time, the fact that his simple existence still provokes that reaction in Dean makes Castiel feel disgustingly warm and tingly inside. 

“Sir,” Dean murmured in his ear when they hugged, just low enough that no one else wandering around the ambulance bay—namely Charlie—could hear. Despite the angry grumble in his stomach, Castiel couldn’t think of a time when he cared about food less. He _misses_ Dean on weeks like this, misses him terribly. The feel of his body against Dean’s, whether it’s sexual or just curling around him in the dead of night—it’s not easy to be without his husband for any extended period of time.

Tonight, with Dean’s pointed, “ _Sir,"_ all sorts of dirty ideas flashed through Castiel’s mind, but he somehow— _barely—_ managed to behave. With his hands firmly on Dean’s hips, Castiel cleared his throat and smiled like he was perfectly fine.

 _Lies,_ said his dick _._

In truth, he’s never had such a wild urge to slam Dean up against the wall and ravage him publicly more so than in that very moment. 

Alright, that’s a lie, too—but the desire _was_ real, and strong. 

Of course, while Castiel managed to stave off his primal urges to bend Dean over right there next to the industrial washer and dryer, the universe decided that wasn’t enough torture to go around. The two of them relocated inside, had _just_ settled down in the kitchen—boots overlapping under the table and burgers barely unwrapped—when the house system went off, dispatching Castiel’s truck to a cardiac arrest at the nearby nursing home. 

Groaning, Castiel reluctantly dropped his burger without so much as a bite, taking those five seconds instead to kiss Dean a rueful goodnight. _Any_ other type of call and he might have opted to pause and wolf down at least half of his meal, but with a code, seconds matter. Ethically, Castiel couldn’t justify it. Those bites might translate to the difference between being able to restart someone’s heart—or not. 

And so he went, out the door and leaving a disappointed Dean behind.

Sweet as he is, Dean had promised to wrap Castiel’s food up and put it in the fridge for when he got back. On the way to the call (while Charlie drove), Cas had spoken to him some more over text. Even after working twelve hours himself, Dean offered to stay at the station and wait for Castiel to return so that they could still eat together. Naturally, Castiel told him not to be ridiculous, to go home and eat, relax and get some sleep.

It wasn’t until two calls later and no break to return to station that Dean texted and admitted he had been waiting there anyway, hoping Castiel would make it back. At that point, Dean was finally ready to admit defeat and head home, having to be back at work himself at six a.m. the next morning. 

For whatever reason, that news and subsequent blow felt even more disappointing to Castiel than their ruined dinner, just knowing that Dean was trying _so_ hard to see him, and that Castiel had let him down.

Castiel thinks about that all now, as he waits outside the E.R. for Charlie to emerge with their restocking supplies. He fiddles with his silent phone and tries to think of ways to make this up to Dean, once the week from hell is over. He struggles to come up with anything particularly inventive or enticing, which is unusual, but maybe he’s just tired.

Sighing, Castiel cracks his neck and closes his eyes against the unusually warm night wind, trying to steal a moment of peace. His radio crackles and beeps at his side, but the dispatch that drops isn’t for him, thank God. He doesn’t feel like himself. It’s just one of those nights, though. Apathy and exhaustion catch up with everyone—what Castiel needs is a damn break, a vacation, _something._

Perhaps that’s why—after Castiel _finally_ returns to station and scarfs his burger stone-cold straight out of the fridge because he’s _that_ hungry—he does what he does. It’s harmless, really (or at least, that’s what Castiel tells himself), initiating something he would normally put a swift stop to, had Dean tried it on him. 

_Both of us are lonely and miserable, more distracted than we should be because of it,_ Castiel rationalizes, inside his own head. _We deserve this_ , _after the week we’ve had_. Tapping his phone against his palm, Castiel reasons that he’ll be in a much less foul mood, that he’ll be able to play the part of happy and focused provider more credibly if he caves to his craving for just a _little_ distraction. 

_I need this,_ he tells himself. But he has work to do as well—he’ll have to multi-task.

So, barely-chewed burger sitting painfully heavy in his stomach, Castiel trudges down the hallway to begin making his way through the copious call documentation he needs to do in the charting room. On the way, he texts Dean. It’s nearly midnight, so Castiel knows there’s a possibility Dean won’t answer. He’s still disappointed when that’s what happens, but Castiel keeps his screen unlocked and the message thread up, just in case.

The fluorescent lights overhead in the charting room are stark and violent, assaulting Castiel’s tired eyes as they compete with the blue glare of the desktop’s screen and the backlight on his phone. Sighing, Castiel closes his lids for a long moment, rubbing his pointer and middle fingers into each eyelid and wishing that he could take a nap. When he opens them again, there’s a message waiting from Dean, and Castiel wonders how tired he must be that he missed the vibrating alert. 

_Dean: Hey, Sunshine. Missing my ass that much?_

If Dean were in the room, Castiel would roll his eyes and glare at him sternly, but he isn’t, so there’s no reason to hide his delighted grin. Via text, though, he’s all business. 

_Castiel: Dean. Do you not want to play?_

_Dean: Sorry, Sir._

_Castiel: Good boy._

Too damn easy. Castiel settles back into his rolling chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles in front of him, paperwork temporarily forgotten. His EKG strip printouts, signature sheets, and the hurried notes he took on each patient lay strewn about the counter next to the computer. It’s out of character for him to be so scattered, but Castiel feels as if he deserves it. Hell, he’s responsible _every_ damn day of the year and he’s been “on” with no outlet for nearly an entire week—it’s not crazy to want to take ten minutes with his husband to relax a little.

_Castiel: I sent you your instructions. What’s taking so long?_

Castiel’s nearly positive that on the other end of the phone, in their shared apartment, Dean is stretched out in bed running through the same reservations and concerns he himself has been battling. But with Castiel’s unambiguous go-ahead, he’s hoping— _for once_ —that Dean won’t want to talk about it. That he’ll choose to trust that Castiel needs this, that he knows what he’s doing and what he’s asking for. That he has everything under control.

True to form, Dean doesn’t disappoint. He never does. 

_Dean: Just tryna find my good side, Sir ;)_

_Castiel: There isn’t an inch of you that doesn’t qualify. You are beautiful, stunning perfection. Every feature carved by God himself to be my perfect ideal, both inside and out. Nothing you could do, no picture you could take, could ever be anything less than that. My sweet, sweet boy._

With a line like that, Castiel knows he’s really tempting fate for his unrepentantly bratty husband to send him an unflattering photo, something like—Dean with a triple chin squashed down into his neck, eyes crossed and making a ridiculous face. After all, that is Dean to his core, the sarcastic bastard. Not that Castiel can punish him for an impulse, but the fact that Dean is likely fighting it off is amusing enough. 

Regardless, if Castiel knows the man the way he thinks he does, Dean will take the silly picture but resist sending it right away. Likely, Castiel will wake up one morning in the coming week with it set as his lock screen. Tonight, though, he’s fairly certain Dean wants to play as much as he does. If that’s actually the case, then he’ll be good. 

He’s correct—Dean makes no acknowledgement of Castiel’s cheesy sweet nothings, but less than two minutes later, a picture message appears in their texting thread. It’s a good thing Castiel is sitting, because even though he’s expecting the provocative shot, the sight makes him fumble, dropping his phone into his lap. 

He doesn’t pick it up right away—instead, he closes his eyes and lets out a low groan at the wave of disappointment that he isn’t there to enjoy Dean’s current state in person. _Oh, the possibilities._ Castiel savors the mental image of everything he _could_ be doing to Dean for a long moment before sitting up and returning his eyes to the phone’s screen.

The picture displayed shows Dean (of course), dressed in nothing but Castiel’s favorite pair of emerald green, lace panties. They’re not the originals (if memory serves, this is pair five. Somehow, they keep getting ruined), but they look as mouth-watering as they did the very first time Castiel saw Dean wearing them. 

The angled image Dean sent is cropped from mid-torso to mid-thigh—such a tease, his sub. Castiel finds himself biting his lip and zooming in—hey, he’s allowed.

 _Oh, this will be fun,_ Castiel thinks, entirely pleased. If there’s one thing he and Dean are good at, it’s making the best of tough situations, and tonight will be no exception. Castiel has a vague plan—something along the lines of instructing Dean to tease himself mercilessly, dildo up his ass while he jerks himself off. Edging without relief will be involved, no doubt, made worse by the fact that Dean will have to go to work and endure working his entire shift tomorrow before he can come home and get off. 

Since they _are_ both free tomorrow night and the two days following—the pain will be worth the delayed pleasure.

_Dean: See something you like, Sir?_

Castiel sees something he _knows_ he’ll enjoy taking apart from afar, that’s for sure. However, safety comes first.

While it’s not necessarily sexy, Dean is aware that if he winds up _too_ worked over and distracted, Castiel wants him to safeword out and get himself off. Dean’s well-being at work is paramount, period. _No_ game, no distraction or escape from reality (entertaining as it may be) is worth putting that at risk. To ensure that they’re definitely on the same page, Castiel reiterates all of that over text and refuses to answer Dean’s teasing messages until he gets an acknowledgement of the same. 

_Dean: this part of your torture plan, sweetheart?_

_Castiel: Dean._

_Dean: Oh, yeah, talk safety to me baby_

_Castiel: Keep it up and you won’t be coming tomorrow night, either_

_Dean:_ 😳

_Dean: I understand the rules, Sir._

_Castiel: Very good. Then get on the bed. Bring the items I told you to collect. Arrange yourself as I described, and then send me a photo._

_Castiel: By the way, I love you and miss you and am terribly jealous of that vibrator, the sheets on our bed, and those panties._

Smiling as he presses _send,_ Castiel decides that it’s well worth his time to get comfortable. He slides the chair back before kicking his feet up onto the counter where the computers are lined up. His boots thud heavily against the cheap laminate. It shakes, but Castiel barely notices, eyes glued to his phone while he waits in high anticipation for Dean to reply. 

Unfortunately for Castiel, just as his phone dings again, his pager opens with static and the house system flares to life. “ _City Medic Two, assist the police in the area of Penn Street and South Fifth Street with a possible ALS Medical.”_

“Fuck,” Castiel swears, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. His luck just won’t quit this week, apparently. With a sigh, Castiel drops his feet and moves to pocket his phone, thinking better of it at the last minute. Knowing it’s a mistake, he swipes the screen open and peeks at the photo that’s waiting in the thread.

Naturally, the sight elicits another groan, and Castiel bites down on his bottom lip until it hurts. Splayed out on their bed, Dean is on his back with the panties pulled to one side, the camera likely somewhere down around his knees. His upper body and face are far enough away to be completely out of focus, but his ass cheeks are spread and the dildo is already pushed inside. Castiel’s guessing this still originated from a video, judging by the impossible angle. 

As he reluctantly shoves his way out of his seat and heads for the ambulance bay where Charlie has the truck up and running, Castiel texts furiously. He gives Dean both a litany of praise and a list of instructions, knowing that he’ll be at least forty-five minutes until there’s _any_ possibility of replying again. 

_Castiel: Love you and miss you, my wonderfully good boy._

Wearily, he tucks the phone away and hops into the truck.

“I put us responding,” Charlie tells him, her words barely discernible wrapped around a giant yawn as they are. Just seeing it makes Castiel respond in kind, and he glares at her, annoyed.

“Thanks for reminding me of how tired I am,” he says flatly, as Charlie pulls the truck forward and out of the garage. 

“Better wake up,” she says, flipping on the lights via the switch in the center console and closing the bay doors behind them. “Dispatch says this guy is wild, giving police a really hard time. He’s got a medical bracelet on but they can’t get close enough to see what it says and he isn’t keen on sharing, apparently.” 

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “Interesting,” he remarks, glancing out the window to watch their red lights bouncing off of the darkened buildings as they pass. Any other night, he _would_ find this interesting, possibly even intimidating. Psych patients, intoxicated people, altered mental status of any kind (whether self-induced or medical, like with hypoglycemia) are often unpredictable and frequently difficult to manage. Castiel supposes he should be glad the police called them for help and didn’t just throw this poor sap headfirst into a cell to ride it out. 

It’s just that tonight, his interest lies elsewhere. His body and mind are exhausted and craving relief. Castiel’s almost itchy, the way he’s so needy for Dean and some quality, uninterrupted time together. He _never_ lets himself get like this at work, but it is what it is. Castiel is only human, and he’s failing at working above that paygrade tonight. Superhero status: offline. The reality is, the best anyone is getting from him over the next five hours or so is second-string energy. 

“Dispatch, Medic Two is on location with PD,” Charlie says into the mic as she smoothly guides the truck to a stop next to the curb. There are two city police cruisers and a supervisor’s SUV parked ahead of them on the street, the SUV half-up on the sidewalk. All three vehicles have their emergency lights on, and between the reds and blues and the streetlamps, at least the dead of night isn’t hindering Castiel’s ability to see clearly what’s going on. 

They’re somewhere in the middle of what amounts to the main drag of the city, darkened shops lining both sides of the street. Less than a block away, there’s a bar with a lit neon sign and a small crowd gathered outside, the patrons' laughter and jeers drifting through the air as Castiel cautiously exits the ambulance. 

Between those onlookers and his truck, five police officers have a pretty built-looking white male effectively cornered up against a glass storefront. They’re essentially holding a perimeter, surrounding him in a semi-circle but not attempting to move any closer. The guy _looks_ like a caged animal, eyes wild and posture defensive, ready to strike at anyone at any time. No question, this situation is a ticking time-bomb. 

“This isn’t good,” Castiel mutters to Charlie, unhooking his keys from his belt loop and handing them over to her. “Pull out the narc box, would you?” 

“What, you don’t think naked boy is going to come easy?” 

“No,” Castiel deadpans, ignoring Charlie’s obvious sarcasm while he sizes up the scene in front of him. “I do not.” To be fair, _Naked boy_ is not an inaccurate descriptor—every inch of skin on all six-plus feet of their potential patient is on display, save for—thankfully—the parts hidden by a grime-streaked pair of boxers and the silver bracelet wrapped around his left wrist. He’s shoeless, dirty, scraped all to hell, and his eyes remain wide and fearful. On his head he’s sporting a blond, messy mop that sticks up in all directions, reminiscent to Castiel of the way Dean laughs at his own hair for acting most mornings.

It’s a good thing that the weather is unseasonably warm, oddly temperate for the dead of night in late fall. It could just as easily have been snowing, and then this would have been a whole different call. Hypothermia in agitated patients is never a fun time. 

As Castiel looks on thoughtfully, mentally formulating a plan, an officer appears at his side. 

“Heya, friend,” Donna Hanscum greets him brightly, a wide smile on her face as a comforting hand squeezes Castiel’s shoulder. “Long time, no see. Sorry to be dragging you out like this, but I figured it was for the best…” She trails off and gestures vaguely in the direction of the cornered man, whose eyes have locked onto Castiel in an entirely unnerving way. Naked boy’s unblinking ice-blue stare is enough to send shivers down Castiel’s spine, and he’s a six-foot, well-muscled man himself, so it’s not as if he’s easily shaken. 

“Without being privy to further details, my educated guess is that you did the right thing,” Castiel offers, barely glancing at Donna. “What happened?” 

As Castiel listens (and continues to observe his patient), Donna recounts matching 911 calls from the bar and several patrons outside that described an unclothed man running around screaming in the streets. Thus far, by all reports and since police arrival, he hasn’t actually been violent. Hasn’t attacked any bystanders or officers, even when they attempted to isolate him. 

Donna and the other officers _did_ witness him yelling and rolling around on the ground in the roadway, pulling at his own hair and mumbling incoherently, but his agitation hasn’t been directed at anyone besides himself. The man hasn’t been able to answer questions or provide any useful information about who he is, which isn’t a surprise, and no one at the bar recognizes him. 

It isn’t very much to go on. Castiel wishes he could at least get a look at that bracelet, but his wish just may not be in the cards tonight.

Ultimately, because he doesn’t know the man’s medical history or have any idea about what might be going on, Castiel decides to attempt a de-escalation before resorting to chemical or physical restraints. Although, he does enact a Plan B. It’s simple enough to draw up some Ativan and stick it in his pocket with a nasal atomizer screwed onto the tip. A quick squirt into the patient’s nostril should lay him out pretty quickly if necessary, though Castiel hopes it won’t come to that. 

At Castiel’s request, the police dissolve their line and step back, giving him a wide berth and space to speak to the patient alone. Thanks to Donna, the flashing emergency lights on all of the vehicles get turned off, too. In Castiel’s experience, they’re a constant visual reinforcement to an agitated person that _something is wrong._ Rarely helpful. 

In fact, without approaching, Castiel studies the man’s face as the lights go out and the cops visibly stand down. The change is subtle, but the man relaxes, if only minutely. The set of his jaw and the lines of his face lose just a _tiny_ bit of their tension, and that’s enough—Castiel takes the opening. 

“Hello,” Castiel says cautiously, and the man’s eyes snap to him, still wild, but clear and somehow focused. It’s a start. “My name is Cas, and I am not with the police. I’m a paramedic. I’m here to help you, to get you out of here safely. Would you like that? To leave?” 

Still guarded, the man studies Castiel for several long seconds. Arms tightly crossing his chest, his fingernails dig into his own biceps and the ball of one foot presses and turns into the cement like he’s stubbing out a cigarette. He swallows, and Castiel watches his throat bob. He’s sweaty, much more so than the weather—or even his running around antics—should have caused. 

Over the next fifteen minutes, Castiel doesn’t move. He doesn’t try to step forward or get into the man’s space, doesn’t touch him or attempt physical contact of any kind. He just talks—and listens, when the man has something to say, which is infrequent, and laconic—and offers suggestions. Explains what will happen if the man chooses to come into the ambulance of his own free will. 

Eventually, the man gives up his name. It’s Bart, or at least, that’s what he’s calling himself. It’s very obvious to Castiel that Bart took something, something psychoactive that is having a fairly extreme negative impact on him. It’s probable that Bart is nothing like this when he’s sober, and Castiel doesn’t fail to remember that. 

Which is why, when the police officers start grumbling and complaining about how long he’s taking, Castiel pays them no mind. What’s best for Bart and what’s comfortable for all of them aren’t necessarily the same thing. It’s his job to carry out the former, not cater to the latter.

Unfortunately, Bart can’t or won’t admit to what he took, or even the way he ingested it. He won’t let Castiel see his bracelet, or relay what’s on it. Castiel doesn’t care about the morals and ethics of drug use, except that certain drugs interact with other drugs, and he’d like to know what his Ativan might do to Bart if administered. 

Some days, he just doesn’t get those answers, and this is looking like one of those times. 

Regardless, after some careful coaxing, Castiel manages to talk Bart into the truck. He doesn’t touch the man as they walk over, and Bart keeps a careful distance. He continues to cling to himself, too, eyeing Castiel with suspicion-laced-fear, but he goes. His bare feet leave dirt on the steel steps leading into the box, and Castiel notes the way Bart doesn’t flinch at all when his skin meets the sharp treads meant to stave off falls. Whatever he’s on, it’s impairing all of his senses. 

For that reason, Castiel hesitates when Donna sticks her head into the back and asks if Castiel wants an officer to ride with them. Despite his agitation, Bart has only been cooperative so far, if hesitant. But being scared is not a crime, and he seems to have formed a tentative trust with Castiel. Right now, Bart is sitting quietly on the stretcher, finally dropping his hands from his biceps to worry the edge of the hospital sheet draped gently over his lap instead. His eyes dart around, but that’s been consistent since EMS showed up, so Castiel doesn’t worry too much about it.

If Bart had showed _any_ signs of aggression, Castiel wouldn’t hesitate to bring an officer into the back for his own safety. But he _hasn’t,_ and he’s clearly distrustful of the blue uniforms. Hence, Castiel’s pause. It’s a dilemma, for sure, one that has Castiel glancing between his patient and Donna’s face in the doorway with a lack of surety. 

“It’s Uriel, if that makes a difference,” Donna offers.

“Maybe have him ride in the front? Just in case,” Castiel replies, trying to find a happy medium. If he weren’t nearly as tall as Bart and as buff as he is, perhaps he’d be more inclined to risk his patient’s current settled state, but as it is, keeping the peace seems more important. The risk is likely low—once again, Bart _hasn’t_ shown any interest in hurting him—and even if he tries something, Castiel can undoubtedly handle himself until Uriel can climb into the back.

“Yes,” he reiterates more firmly, in response to Donna’s questioning eyebrow. “Let’s do that.” 

The ride is uneventful, for the most part. They go quietly, lights and sirens off, easy listening music playing over the speakers, and Bart keeps to himself. He even lets Castiel take a set of vital signs, which is more than Castiel expected, honestly. 

When they’re about three minutes away from the hospital, Castiel moves from his seat next to Bart so that he can grab the radio and have dispatch connect him with the ER. He gives his report standing just behind the stretcher, like he usually does. As he’s talking, he inadvertently catches Bart’s gaze in the reflection of the windows in the back doors, and that’s when it happens. 

It’s all so fast, so unexpected, Castiel can barely get his hands up to defend himself before Bart is on top of him. 

It’s strange, the things that go through your mind in these circumstances. In Castiel’s case, it’s watching Bart grab the oxygen tank kept stored beneath the adjustable head of the stretcher that sets him off.

 _Why didn’t I move that?_ He chastises himself internally, watching everything go to shit in what feels like slow-motion.

Out of _everything_ Castiel could have forgotten, every precaution he thought was taken, _why_ didn’t he think of the oxygen? Everything else—he was so careful, so sensitive, so thoughtful. He made all the right moves, all the right choices, did _all_ the right things for Bart. Even the choice to only buckle him in at the waist—everything Castiel did was carefully designed to keep his patient calm, to help him feel in control, safe, and to get them both to the hospital without incident.

Castiel doesn’t take the assault lying down, of course. He fights back, grapples for the oxygen tank, wrestles with it while hollering for Charlie to pull over. Uriel moves quickly—he’s a rock star. He’s climbing into the side door and coming to Castiel’s rescue seemingly before the truck has even fully stopped moving. 

By then, though, his and Bart’s squabble has Castiel nearly pinned at the other end of the box. They’re well-matched, in body-size and muscle, but Bart has something on his side Castiel doesn’t, and that’s drugs fueling his system. It’s what gives him the burst of energy to yank the tank out of Castiel’s hands for good, haul it back, and slam it into the side of Castiel’s head hard enough make him see actual cartoon birds and stars. 

Dizzily, as he slumps to the floor and weakly lifts his hand for protection, Castiel thinks Dean would find the cartoon birds funny, circumstances aside. He blinks, blood trickling down into his eye, and can only watch helplessly as Bart brings the tank up over his head again.

The last thing Castiel sees before everything goes dark is Uriel pulling out his taser and firing, but he’s not quick enough. The oxygen tank finds its target, and Castiel’s vision goes fuzzy and then black.

***

_Dean_

The soles of Dean’s shoes slap hard against the sleek, tiled floor as he races down the inner corridor leading from the parking garage to the emergency department’s waiting room. The sound echoes off of the stark white walls with their generic art prints, mocking him. Dean had thought briefly about pulling into one of the ambulance-only spots and walking into the ER directly, but in his haste to leave the apartment, he left his ID badge in the catch-all bowl on the sideboard. 

Said bowl still sits next to the box meant for his collar, though it’s been ages since Dean’s even bothered to return it there. Whether it’s around his neck or circling his wrist, Dean doesn’t particularly enjoy being without the thin strip of emerald-dyed leather, doesn’t see a reason that he should have to be. 

With his heart thudding in his chest, his breath sharp like knives in his throat as he hurries, Dean’s right hand is drawn to the collar now. He takes comfort in tracing its edges, breathing into the way the collar curves and presses against the skin just above his left hand. In a way, the collar _is_ Cas—surrounding him, keeping him steady. A constant reminder that he’s _there,_ that he loves and cares for Dean, that he’s always holding him tight. 

The lump that rises in Dean’s throat is hard to push past, but he reminds himself again that he doesn’t have any details, that maybe the situation is not as bad as he’s imagining. It’s a hard pill to swallow, though, thinking back on the panicked call he’d received on _Cas’_ cell from _Donna,_ of all people. Thinks about the audible chaos in the background, about Donna’s rushed insistence that Dean _get to the hospital immediately,_ and the fact that she wouldn’t put Cas on the line.

Dean’s not a total idiot. Nothing about this is looking good. 

He bursts through the doors at the end of the hallway, rocketing out into the busy waiting room and turning nearly every head his way in the process. To Dean’s surprise, Sam is standing by the triage counter, clad in his disposable blue trauma gown and hat, mask off of his face but still tied and hanging around his neck. He looks exhausted and worried, biting distractedly at his fingernails while scrolling his phone, and Dean’s heart drops down somewhere near his balls. 

Sam always has his shit together. _Always._

The younger Winchester glances up at Dean’s dramatic entrance, catching his brother’s eye immediately. The expression on Sam’s face wavers between relieved and pitying, settling on something carefully blank. _God_ , Dean doesn’t like _any_ of the way this is looking at all. 

“C’mon,” Sam calls out, waving an anxious arm to encourage Dean to pick up the pace, as if he ever stopped running. Without a word, Sam grabs Dean by the bicep as soon as he’s close enough to do so, slaps his ID badge against the wall sensor and yanks Dean through the automatic double doors before they’ve even fully opened. 

“He’s already on standby in pre-op,” Sam says as they hustle forward. “It’s emergent, Dean. I couldn’t hold him in the trauma bay, Neuro’s gotta get in his head like, ten minutes ago.” They reach the end of the hall in the blink of an eye, dead-ending at an elevator bank that leads to the main hospital. Sam slams the “up” arrow angrily with this knuckles before rubbing the back of his wrist across his forehead. 

“There are consents you need to sign, and if you want my opinion, I don’t think you should see him right now—”

“What? Fuck that,” Dean interjects angrily, right as the doors slide open and Sam shoves him inside. In their haste, they nearly bowl over a tiny nurse who squeaks and turns sideways as she exits past them. 

Sam holds up a hand to him— _wait_ —then smashes “4” with even more emphasis than he did the call button. “Dude, relax. I never thought you’d listen to me. Just—” Sam pauses then, looks at Dean pleadingly as he slumps tiredly against the wall. “You need to be prepared for what you’re going to see, alright? I can’t guarantee he’ll be awake, he’s been in and out. If he is, he might not be able to talk to you, might not know who you are. Worst case,” Sam quickly amends, seeing Dean’s stricken face. 

“Okay but—Sam, what the _hell_ happened?” 

That brings Sam up short, has him blinking stupidly into the soft elevator lighting as Dean waits impatiently for an explanation. “Oh,” Sam replies. The elevator dings their arrival on the surgical floor. When they shuffle off, Sam finally slows down, looking completely lost in thought as he guides Dean off to the side of the hallway. They move towards a window that looks out over the roof of the emergency department and the parking lot beyond. “I thought—”

“Donna didn’t tell me shit,” Dean supplies and Sam exhales forcefully. 

“We don’t really have time,” he says, all puppy-dog eyes and pleading tone. Dean nods ( _the fuck else can he do?_ ), gestures for him to get on with it. “Short version: agitated psych, drugs on board, got a hold of the oxygen tank and clocked Cas in the head with it. Twice.” Sam breaks off for a second, allowing Dean to digest the information.

Meanwhile, Dean feels as if the floor has opened up below him and he’s free-falling to his death. Stomach in his throat, he waits for the splat of his body hitting the pavement, but of course, it never comes. 

“...Depressed skull fracture,” Sam is saying, when Dean tunes back in. “Epidural hematoma, smaller subdural, obviously a ton of contusion—we really won’t know until he’s out of surgery and recovering. Right now, he’s looking pretty rough and his prognosis—it’s… it’s—well, we just won’t know until after the surgery.” 

“Won’t know?” Dean echoes faintly, reaching a hand out and leaning on the cool glass of the window pane for support. There’s lube drying on the inside of his thighs. It’s tacky and disgusting, and Dean hasn’t decided yet whether he regrets not taking an extra thirty seconds to clean himself up. 

What a weird fuckin’ thing to dwell on right now, but here he is. Dean hates himself a little, is starting to hate Sam even more for keeping him from Cas.

Oblivious, Sam steps closer to squeeze Dean’s shoulder, his thin and no-longer-sterile gown fluttering around his baggy scrubs. “He has the best team,” Sam emphasizes. “Naomi’s chief of Neurosurgery, she’s board-certified, she’s basically magic with fixing and rewiring brains. We just need to move, okay? The most important factor here is time. If you insist on seeing Cas before you sign the consents, I’ll bring you to him, and I’ll bring the papers to you. Or I can take you to the waiting room, we’ll do the consents there. But we have to go now, so decide. And Dean, I know that you’re stubborn. Most stubborn guy I know. But for your sake, think about whether you want to risk _this_ being the last image of Cas you’ll have.” 

That snaps Dean out of his semi-dissociated reverie like a bucket of ice water over his head. “You can’t be fuckin’ serious,” he says. His knows his eyes are wide with disbelief and he’s not sure whether he should be angry or disgusted or begging. “Sam—it’s _Cas._ ” 

To Dean’s relief, because he doesn’t have it in him, Sam doesn’t put up a fight. With a tight nod of his head, Sam sighs in what feels like expected resignation. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I know, Dean. Alright, let’s go.” 

Dean can’t help it, he slips back into that slightly dissociated state as they move through several double doors and over red-tape lines painted on the floor. An “OR STAFF ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT” sign screams at Dean to turn back more than once, but Sam’s insistent grip on his arm buoys him onward. 

It’s surreal, walking through spaces he’s clearly not meant to be in. That, and knowing _Cas_ is somewhere back here, barely clinging to life. Dean just wants to be with him. 

As a firefighter, Dean’s assisted with the transport of a critical patient from the parking lot to the burn unit or the OR doors more than once. He’s been on this floor, but he’s always handed off care before this point. Never really been in charge of care to begin with, always there squeezing a ventilation bag or holding pressure on something that spurts. Basically, a grunt. Doing something mindless, brainless, and to top it all off, Dean’s never been emotionally invested in the person on the stretcher. 

Well, except for once, and let’s just say—it’s a _hell_ of a lot easier to be the patient, of that Dean is now certain. Sure, it’s nerve-wracking thinking you might die or whatever, and having a tube jammed down your throat to help you breathe is no damn picnic. But on the other hand, you get to pass out a lot. The nurses give you good drugs that make reality feel distant, keep you from having to deal with any of it. That’s not so bad.

Family, on the other hand—they get no drugs, no enhanced sleeps that help with coping and take them out of their own heads for a while. They just have to sit. And wait. And pray, or whatever. Count the seconds on the clock. Look at your busted, broken body doing whatever it’s (not) doing, all still and unnaturally quiet in a hospital bed.

Yeah, no question, this is way fucking worse. 

The room Cas is being kept in is more of a bay, really. Several “stations,” for lack of a better word, identical areas curtained off from each other that resemble the trauma bays downstairs. Each has a monitor mounted to the wall, oxygen access, wire buckets of supplies mounted above where the head of a stretcher would go. There’s only one bed in the room, though, only one station that’s occupied. It’s not a real hospital bed, either—it’s a trauma stretcher, fitted with a haphazard flat sheet and not a soft, fitted one. In all likelihood, that sheet came directly off of the ambulance’s litter.

It has blood all over it.

Why Dean even notices the stupid details of the bed, he couldn’t say. It probably has something to do with the way Cas is lying semi-lifeless on top, IVs running into both arms, wires and tubes everywhere. The nurses bustle around him like bees fighting over a pollen-heavy flower and just as busy. Except, that’s adorable, a scene Cas would _love_ , and that Dean would love to watch Cas delight in seeing. It’s something straight out of a daydream.

This, the true reality of it? This is a nightmare, and maybe Dean isn’t ready to look directly at it. 

But Sam’s words echo in his head, the bits about _time_ and not having much of it. They carry him forward on numb feet, have him sinking into the chair that a kind nurse in a “Washington State Cougars” print surgical cap pulls up for him. The nurse’s bright blue eyes steal Dean’s attention, make him think about _Cas,_ who he hasn’t forced himself to look directly at, not yet. 

Not yet, because then it will be real, then there will be no going back.

 _God,_ when Cas is better, Dean has _got_ to tell him that he fuckin’ gets it now. How goddamn _hard_ this is. That he doesn’t have any idea how Cas did it with him, how he functioned at all, never mind helped Sam to save his life. 

_Cas._

His smile flits across Dean’s mind, his laugh echoes in his ears.

 _Jennifer,_ the nurse’s plastic ID tag says, and her expression in the picture seems friendly, compassionate. When Dean raises his eyes to meet hers, she just looks concerned. Her lips are moving, and it takes Dean an extended moment to realize that she’s speaking to him. 

“Make it quick,” she’s saying, tipping her head towards Cas, and Dean finally understands that she’s echoing Sam’s earlier warning. She’s firm, but her tone isn’t unkind, just honest, no-nonsense. Dean appreciates it, almost as much as the grounding squeeze he gets to his shoulder as she hurries away. 

Slightly delayed and too late for her to see, Dean nods, his eyes flicking reflexively in the direction she indicated and _finally_ landing on Cas. 

He’s not prepared.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he blurts out, unable to swallow the devastation. Even to Dean’s own ears, his voice sounds distressed, but it _feels_ disconnected from him. Dean reaches for Cas’ hand where it’s laying limply next to him on the bed, and scoops it up. Cas doesn’t squeeze back, doesn’t show any sign that he knows Dean is there, but his hand is big and warm and it fits perfectly inside Dean’s, just like it always has. 

Cas’ hand is perfect, undamaged, save for a few scrapes around the knuckles. His sapphire-inlaid wedding ring sits innocuously where Dean slid it on way back when, and Dean’s fingers go to it immediately. He swallows hard before forcing himself to focus on Cas’ face. 

It’s hard to look at him. The Cas in Dean’s mind barely resembles the bruised and battered mess lying in this bed. The entire right side of his husband’s face is bruised and swollen, Cas’ right eye sealed completely shut by the trauma. There’s a ton of bloody gauze piled and taped atop his head, and there’s a wire or a drain or something coming out from underneath that Dean isn’t able to even _consider_ looking too closely at. 

“Cas,” he croaks, using his free hand to shake Cas’ shoulder gently. Above them, the monitor beeps in a chastising way, and Dean frowns. “Cas, please, man,” he pleads, his eyes filling up against his will, wasting no time in spilling over. He hardly cares, let people see. “Come on, baby, just—” He tightens his grip on Castiel’s hand. “ _Cas._ ” 

Dean brings Cas’ hand to press against his tear-streaked cheek, holds it there for a prolonged moment while he chokes back a sob. “You gotta come back to me, sunshine. Alright? You gotta—”

It’s nonsense talk, Dean knows it, feels it in his bones. Cas hasn’t moved a muscle since he walked in, never mind shown any remote signs of waking. Because of that, Dean is definitely not expecting the grunt that follows his demand. He blinks the water from his eyes, straightens up a little and lowers Cas’ hand in time to see Cas’ left eye crack open, just slightly. The glimpse of blue beneath nearly has Dean bursting into tears all over again, but he manages to control himself.

“Cas! Cas, I’m here. Stay with me, okay? Can you talk, or—” The corner of Cas’ mouth twitches and he blinks his good eye twice. His mouth opens and closes shortly after, but no sound comes out, not even another grunt. 

“Okay,” Dean tells him, touching the uninjured side of his face gently. “It’s okay, Cas, don’t—don’t stress about it, no worries. Sammy’s got a real good doctor ready to fix you all up, okay? And then I’ll be there when you wake up. I’ll be there and we’ll go home, and everything is gonna be okay. You got that?” 

Cas’ mouth twitches again, and Dean _swears_ it ticks up into the ghost of a really shitty smile. He looks pained, but he closes his eye and opens it again, pointedly this time. “Was that… once for yes?” Dean asks and then waits, and Cas does the motion again. The non-verbal exchange fills Dean with incredible relief—Cas is _in there,_ he’s okay. 

“Oh god, thank fuck,” he says, sniffling. “Cas, I love you so much, okay? We’re going to get you all fixed up. I’m here.” Babbling, he’s babbling—Dean knows he is, but he can’t help it. He thinks Cas is doing the “yes” wink again, but this time, his eye doesn’t open back up. 

Dean squeezes his hand and tries not to sob.

“Take his wedding ring with you,” the voice of the nurse from earlier says gently. _Jennifer_ , Dean remembers. She’s appeared out of nowhere by Dean’s side again, or maybe she never left the room. He really has no idea. “I’ll have to send it down to Security, otherwise. I’m sure you don’t want that.”

“No,” Dean replies gruffly, sounding less grateful than he means to be. He clears his throat as he robotically works Cas’ ring down off of his hand. There’s a tan line left behind, even this late in the year, and Dean stares at it blankly. It’s so normal, so _Cas,_ that he can’t quite reconcile its existence with Cas’ current state. Instead of pocketing the ring, Dean slips it on next to his own. Cas’ fingers are slightly thicker, but not enough that it might fall off. Dean clenches his hand into a protective fist anyway. 

“Here,” Sam’s disembodied voice says from somewhere behind him, and Dean doesn’t even bother to turn around. “Jenn, Naomi changed some of his infusion orders, FYI. Anesthesia’s right outside, we can roll over as soon as these are signed.” 

“Already on it,” the nurse says with a dismissive wave. She leaves Dean’s side to go and fuss with one of the electronic pumps flowing medication into the IV inserted into Cas’ right arm. 

“Dean, here,” Sam says, his tone more pressed than it was before as he tugs at Dean’s sleeve. Reluctantly, Dean lets go of Castiel’s hand, tucking it gently into his side and leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth before complying. When he turns around, Sam’s expression is downright pitiful as he watches, and that’s maybe the worst thing Dean’s seen yet. 

Over the next few minutes, Sam rambles and Dean mindlessly scribbles every time his brother points. There’s a whole sheet on advanced directives, and at least _that_ Dean knows what to do with. He and Cas have had this conversation many times, like all of their provider friends have. They’ve even had it with Sam and Jess, so when Sam scans Dean’s chosen check boxes and nods, Dean knows that he’s agreeing because he sees Cas’ wishes reflected accurately back. 

At least he knows he got something right, here.

When they’re done, Dean steals one more kiss, one more soft whisper into Cas’ ear that he _better fucking come back_ to him before Cas is being wheeled away and out of Dean’s reach. His heart feels like it’s ripping apart inside his chest but all he can fucking _do_ is stand there like an idiot. So stand there he does, silently twirling Cas’ ring and ignoring the way his tears fall off of his face and onto the ugly green-tinged floor.

It’s only when the bay is fully empty, not just of Cas but Sam and Jenn and everyone else too, that Dean abruptly realizes Sam didn’t tell him where to _go_ or what to do next. 

He’s about to full-on panic when suddenly, a familiar face appears in the doorway. Not a face Dean expected, but then again, maybe he should have. Meg’s curly hair is pulled back and she’s dressed in pink scrubs, so maybe she’s working or maybe she just got off shift. She’s hardly Dean’s favorite person on the planet, but right now, he’s never been happier to see someone. 

“C’mon, loverboy,” she says, stepping forward to loop an arm encouragingly through Dean’s. She’s surprisingly strong, and Dean lets himself lean into the support, just a little. “This is getting to be a pattern with you two.” Meg’s free hand rubs Dean’s bicep in a very soothing, very _un-_ Meg type of way. “Let’s go get you some coffee.” 

Dean’s heard _far_ worse ideas in his life than that. Still, he can’t help but ask, “Got anything stronger?” 

Meg laughs, and weirdly, that makes Dean feel slightly better. At least he knows she understands.

***

Meg stays. The hours that follow are some of the longest and most painful of Dean’s entire life. He can’t focus enough to read a magazine or even listen to the TV that blares in the family waiting room. He has concerned texts on his phone from everyone and their mother, but Dean just doesn’t have the spoons to answer yet. 

Sometime during that endless haze, Dean finds out why Jess hasn’t come to see him yet. He should have realized, but his brain isn’t exactly working at full capacity right now. Thankfully, Meg is there to relay that Jess was on duty until three a.m. in the ICU, and that she insisted on staying past the end of her shift to care for Cas once he’s out of surgery. Not for the first time, Dean feels goddamn grateful for his and Cas’ little family (and for Alfie, who’s at Sam’s house watching Mary, Dean’s toddler niece, so that Jess _can_ stay). 

Absently, Dean thinks about Mary and the little brother she has on the way. It makes him crush and crumble the empty styrofoam cup he’s holding in his hand, has him dropping his head between his shoulders and praying desperately to Cas, like he can somehow hear. 

_Cas, you gotta make it out of this, buddy. You gotta meet your nephew. He’s gonna love you so much, Cas, just like we all do. Cas. I need you. Please be okay._

This time when Dean looks up, he finds Meg’s eyes full of tears, too. As they begin to spill over, running slowly and silently down her cheeks, Dean pulls her into a tight hug and they just cling to each other. The awkward plastic arm of the chair in between them presses painfully into Dean’s hip, and the silence of the waiting room hangs heavily. 

They stay like that for a very long time. 

Eventually, Sam appears in the doorway beside Naomi, a relieved smile gracing his tired face and barely any expression on hers. Dean stiffens, but Meg whispers to him that Naomi is always like that. According to them both, the surgery went well and Cas should be rolling into the ICU within the hour. Because of who Dean is, he’ll be allowed in right away. That’s a goddamn relief, since Dean was planning on fighting his way to Cas’ side come hell or high water and worrying about the consequences later. 

When it’s time, Meg accompanies him up the elevator to the unit with Sam, but she isn’t allowed to actually come into the ICU. Dean promises to update her frequently, hugs her, and thanks her sincerely. It’s maybe the most genuine interaction he and Meg have ever had.

“You guys have to stop this crazy death wish thing you have going,” she jokes lightly, chucking him on the shoulder. The sentiment actually makes Dean laugh, albeit a little bitterly. “Hang in there.” She walks away.

Exchanging a glance with his brother, Dean answers Sam’s raised eyebrow with a nod of his own; he’s ready. 

The ICU itself is too much like he remembers it. Too-sterile air, the scent of disinfectant covering blood and stale body fluids in his nose, and the beeping of life-sustaining machines to both his left and right. For a second, Dean has to stop and take a deep breath, centering himself. 

Maybe Meg’s comment wasn’t such a joke, after all—Dean has a feeling they’re all going to need some very intensive therapy after Cas is better. 

Dean smooths down his shirt, composes himself carefully before again following after Sam. The big moose has graciously stopped in the middle of the hallway, averting his eyes and allowing Dean the space to gather himself without comment. 

Seeing Cas is easier this time. He doesn’t look any better overall, but he doesn’t look worse, and he’s definitely less bloody, which Dean thinks must be good. He’s wired for sound, though. There’s a drain coming out of the bandages on his head, a monitor in his scalp tracking the pressure in his brain, plus all of the IVs that were flowing before, maybe more. So much equipment, dwarfing Cas and making him look small—not an easy task.

When they arrive, Cas is intubated and heavily sedated, and Sam rambles about why he’ll stay that way while Dean doesn’t listen at all. Instead, he just pulls a chair into the space between the vent and the bed, and holds his husband’s hand. Dean hangs on for dear life, drops his head to the mattress, and keeps praying, praying like Cas can hear him. 

Dean hardly moves a muscle until the sun is high overhead in the sky.

***

As it turns out, that first night and all the trauma it wrought is only the beginning. Things get better at a snail’s pace, so slowly that at times, Dean feels as if they might actually be going backward. 

Sometimes, they definitely are. 

That first week, Castiel is kept under sedation with the vent breathing for him for several days. _To help his brain heal,_ is how it’s explained to Dean. When Dr. Naomi finally removes the tube, Cas doesn’t wake up the way Dean did. No, Cas’ return to consciousness is slow, measured, and frustrating for Dean, who didn’t understand that this is how it would be.

At first, Castiel doesn’t talk, and no matter how much Naomi reassures Dean that she isn’t worried, it doesn’t make Dean feel any better. No amount of Cas squeezing hands on command or wiggling his toes indicates that _Cas,_ the real Cas and not some half-catatonic shell of who he used to be is actually _in_ there. 

“His brain has been through a lot,” Naomi tells Dean, in that matter-of-fact, condescending way that she speaks. Dean is pretty certain she thinks she’s being empathetic, and weirdly, he kind of respects that. She’s an asshole, he’s an asshole—assholes get things done, so, whatever on her bedside manner. “There’s still quite a lot of swelling, and between the injury and my poking around in there, it’s not surprising to discover he needs some time to come back to himself.” 

Dean tries to smile and nod, tries to hear her, to internalize the reassurances that Cas can still be okay. He forces himself to focus on the way Cas’ eyes follow him, the way he answers yes or no questions by blinking without fail, the way he follows simple commands. The signs _are_ there, if Dean is willing to believe them, but it’s hard. 

The fear remains; hot, molten and angry in his stomach. It comes up several times, when Dean least expects it—once into the biohazard trash can in the corner of Cas’ room and once all over the “tranquility garden” that decorates the area between the parking structure and the entrance to the main hospital. 

The day that happens feels like an all-time low. As Dean sits back on his heels, wiping the bile from his lips, his knees aching from being pressed into the concrete, he lets himself cry. Out here, where Castiel can’t see, where no one will find out how goddamn weak he is. 

It’s just that he’s so fucking _scared,_ and everything feels so uncertain. _Maybe_ Cas is okay, maybe he’s just got a long, slow road ahead of him. Or maybe him waking up is just a delay in the inevitable, and Dean is fooling himself. 

He can’t _allow_ himself to believe, not yet. Good things don’t happen to Dean, and his time with Cas already feels like stolen bliss he didn’t earn. Dean always worried it’d be taken from him someday when he least expected it, and now, here they are. It would be too goddamn hard to let himself relax and then to find out he was wrong. 

Three days after the tube comes out and Cas’ silence is louder than any words could ever be. He still sleeps a lot, the doctors have him on all kinds of medications to help him relax and keep his pain under control. Around five in the evening, Cas’ dinner shows up in the ICU on a tray, appetizingly pureed and smelling about as enticing as it looks. Dean eyes the mess disdainfully before glancing over at Castiel, who’s been passed out cold for the last hour or so. 

Dean doesn’t bother to wake him. Cas isn’t allowed to eat without an aide or a speech therapist present—swallowing issues, just another thing that might or might not be temporary. Either way, Dean’s been warned; no matter how good Cas’ prognosis (and Naomi remains staunchly secure in her belief that he will fully recover), he has a long road ahead. Considering his speech deficits and his struggles with eating, apparently it’s obvious that he’ll likely have to relearn most of his basic functions. 

Like a toddler. 

Dean doesn’t care about that—he isn’t remotely afraid to stand by Cas’ side, however messy this is going to get. He’ll be at every rehab session, he’ll fucking go to nursing school if he goddamn has to. Learn to work a feeding tube and a Hoyer lift and crush meds and whatever else. Cas doesn’t need to walk, doesn’t need to be able to feed himself or wipe his ass or put on his own pants and tie his shoes for Dean to love him. 

_Fuck all that._

No, all Dean cares about is that Cas’ _mind_ is there. That underneath all of these issues, there’s still _Cas._ The snarky, stubborn asshole Dean fell in love with, the take-no-shit Dom who makes Dean feel safe, secured, and loved. The personality, the passion, the brains and the empathy that make Cas who he is—as long as Cas is still _Cas,_ they’ll fuckin’ figure the rest out.

Of course, he can’t voice any of that. Not to Naomi or Meg or Sam, and _definitely_ not to Cas, because this isn’t about _Dean_ and what Dean needs. So he keeps his crushing fear to himself. 

But every hour that goes by and Cas doesn’t talk, Dean worries more. When Naomi can’t give him a good reason, when Cas’ brain swelling dwindles to practically nothing and _still_ he doesn’t speak—Dean’s frightened, and trying hard for Cas’ sake not to show it. 

Maybe if Cas were more _awake—_ not so sedated and uninterested in attempting to answer complicated questions. Maybe if he could _write,_ or sign, then Dean could have a clue, but the fact is, he can’t do any of those things. All he can do is blink and squeeze his hand. 

While Dean rarely leaves Cas’ side, Sam comes and goes as often as he’s able. He tries his best to reassure Dean, but that goes over about as well as Sam trying to convince Dean of anything ever has. 

Tonight, Dean stares out the window at the setting sun, and waits. The speech therapist will be in at any moment and she’ll wake Cas. Cas will eat and pass out again, and Dean will be left alone with his whiny, selfish-ass thoughts. He scowls at his sallow-looking reflection in the glass. 

Outside, there’s ice on the ground, the first solid sign of winter coming on. It’s late as hell this year. The pink in the sky is bright, reflecting prettily off of the frozen surface, and Dean gazes out over it longingly. 

He thinks about their honeymoon in the mountains, thinks about the late anniversary trip they took back there at this very time, last year. They’d gone hiking and fishing despite the cold, even tried to fuckin’ ski. Dean can’t ski for shit, spent more time on his ass and babying his bum knee in the hot tub than he did actually standing up on those godforsaken things. 

The sharp stabbing of the cold across exposed skin, Cas’ bright smile, the way he’d howled with laughter at Dean’s ineptitude on skis—it all flashes across his mind now, and Dean smiles despite himself. He thinks about Cas massaging the pain in his legs away and then spanking his ass sore, just to put things in perspective.

_Dick._

A morbid, depressing part of him wonders whether that was their last trip like that, and Dean didn’t even know it. He wonders, if Cas never gets back to the way he was, what their lives will look like going forward. 

At the end of the day, Dean only knows one thing—so long as Cas is _in there,_ Dean will make it fuckin’ work. 

The sound startles him. It comes from out of nowhere, really. Besides the beeping of Cas’ monitors and IVs and Cas’ occasional soft snoring, there isn’t much noise in here at all. The sliding glass doors to the main ICU are usually closed, now that Cas is fairly stable and not giving everyone heart attacks every twenty minutes. Sealed off, even the relative bustle of the intensive care floor is kept to a minimum. People’s conversations, even directly outside of Cas’ room, usually sound muffled, distant.

This sound is clear as a bell, a voice Dean would recognize anywhere, and he would swear his heart stops beating in his chest. If he were the one hooked up to monitors, no question—they’d be alarming like crazy. He definitely stops breathing—standing still as a statue at the window, afraid to turn around. 

Cas, that goddamn beautiful asshole, says it again. 

“Dean.” 

Just like that, Dean lets go of every fear he’s been harboring, whirling around and making it to Cas’ side in less than two long strides. The head of Cas’ bed is raised a little like it usually is and on it, Cas’ face is turned in Dean’s direction. He looks more wide awake than Dean’s seen him yet, and that sight alone makes his heart soar. Cas’ blue eyes are wide open (or as wide as the right will go with the residual swelling), and clear. 

“Dean,” he repeats, lips curling up into a small smile. 

“Cas,” Dean chokes out, not even pretending that he’s remotely okay. He knows there are tears making tracks over his cheeks, knows he’s probably getting splotchy and red, doesn’t give one red cent about it. He sinks down on the edge of Cas’ bed, grabs both of Cas’ hands and cups them in his own. “Hey, sweetheart, hey. So we’re, uh, talking now?”

In front of him, Cas’ smile widens, making it clear he _fucking understands,_ and Dean loses it. Cas can’t do much, can’t lift his arms and wrap Dean up in them, but he scrabbles with his fingertips until he can squeeze, weakly tugs at the fabric of Dean’s shirt. He shifts impatiently, making sounds that want to be words but don’t quite get there. It’s obvious to Dean that Cas wants to hold him, and he gives in easily. 

Tucking his face into Castiel’s neck, Dean does the work of wrapping Cas’ arms around his torso and his own around Cas’ shoulders, snug between his husband and the bed. 

“Dean,” Castiel says brightly into his ear, clearly delighted with his efforts and the outcome of a totally undone Dean all up in his business. Overwhelmed and fucking _happy,_ Dean can’t find it in him do anything but sob with relief, so that’s what he does. Around his ribs, he can feel Cas’ arms tighten with intention, and that’s pretty damn good, too. 

***

For every breakthrough, there’s a setback, often two or more. But sometimes, Cas’ steps forward are more like leaps, and they give Dean hope that they _will_ get there, eventually. Mostly, though, his steps are small. 

Nearly two weeks after being hospitalized, Castiel leaves the ICU for a bed on the neuro floor. There’s nothing small about that, in Dean’s opinion. The neuro floor is quieter, calmer. Absent of the anxious rushing of staff and the haunting cloud of fear and death constantly hanging overhead in the ICU. Having Jess in their regular rotation of nurses was great, but Dean would trade her in a heartbeat for the easygoing atmosphere the regular neuro floor offers.

The police finally show up, now that Cas is able to put short sentences together, able to get his point across—for the most part. The cops don’t need much in the way of corroboration since both Charlie and Uriel were witnesses, just Cas’ statement and his permission for the D.A.’s office to offer Bart a plea deal involving drug rehab and restitution. Everything else aside, Cas has no interest in going to court over this thing, so he’s quick to agree.

Dean privately thinks the guy’s getting off too easily, but it’s Cas’ choice. Lucky for Bart, Cas has this thing about everyone being redeemable and worthy of a second chance. Apparently, the knock to the head didn't shake that overly idealistic bullshit loose, because he’s still sticking to it. 

Fine, only Dean kinda hopes he runs into the guy on the street someday. In a dark alley outside a bar where nothing in the world could stop him from exacting some more fitting justice. Hey, the quality of mercy is not Dean—he’s never claimed it was.

Regardless, Cas is having a good day when the detectives come traipsing into his room, and he greets them warmly. He doesn’t stutter or cut himself off very often as he recounts what he remembers from that night (not a lot). To Dean’s ear, he sounds _almost_ normal. To a stranger, they might not even guess that he’s struggling. Might chalk his infrequent hesitations up to emotional trauma or even missing memories.

It’s a relief for Dean to watch. Cas’ speech isn’t perfect yet, but it’s heaps better than those first few nightmarish days where he said nothing at all. Both Dr. Naomi and Cas’ speech therapist, Eileen, are pleased with his progress, which is great. Even better, Dean can now tell with absolute surety that Cas is _in there,_ dry and stupid sense of humor and all, so what more can he ask for? 

Patience, maybe. Yeah, Dean wouldn’t mind someone ponying up a little bit of patience to spread around, that’s for sure. Not for _him,_ mind you—Dean has all the goddamn patience in the world for Cas. It’s _Cas_ himself that gets frustrated, angry at his own slow trek back to wellness and his inability to do the things the way he feels he should be able to do. 

On the one hand, Dean gets it. He’s been where Cas is, though not as badly off. Sort of, anyway. He’s never had to relearn moving words from the inside of his head down off the tip of his tongue or how to operate a fork, but he _did_ have to let his brand-spanking-new boyfriend clean his butthole—and _not_ in the sexy way. So, he’s not completely without a reference point. 

The thing is, Cas is a logical guy. In fact, he out-logics, out-analyzes, and out-smarts Dean at every turn, every day of the week, just for kicks. He always has. He’s the King of rationale and common sense. He’s deliberate, thoughtful, and always considers both facts and other points of view before becoming emotional. 

Basically, he’s the opposite of Dean, and Dean both loves and hates him for it. 

These days, though, Cas is acting a _lot_ more like Dean and a lot less like the Castiel Dean is used to. It’s understandable, of course, even without a potential brain injury complicating things. Whether this is a personality change that will wind up permanent hardly matters at the moment; Cas’ feelings and frustrations are valid on their own.

That doesn’t make them any fuckin’ easier to deal with, or throw Dean any less off-kilter when Cas explodes over literally _nothing._

And he does. When he can’t find the right word or force it to come out of his mouth. When his hand won’t cooperate and do what his head wants it to do. When his legs won’t support his weight beneath him, or the space behind his eyes simply won’t stop pounding. Any of those things happen, and Cas gets upset. He yells at nothing, just cries out in disgruntled irritation, or maybe flings what he’s holding across the room. 

Sometimes even his anger doesn’t go the way Castiel intends, and naturally, that only makes things worse. All of the distractions in the world—games, Dean reading from books, movies, pictures of Mary being her adorable self—some days, they just don’t help. On days like that, the only thing Dean can do is give his husband space. 

Times like those, he’ll leave the hospital and drive Baby to the Roadhouse. He’ll pick up burgers and shakes as a peace offering for something he didn’t even do wrong. More often than not, he’ll toss back a shot or two while he’s there. More often than not, he pretends he doesn’t see Ellen and everyone else’s pitying gazes, steadily watching him do so. 

Sometimes, he sits in the parking lot below his and Sam’s old apartment and just stares up at the balcony, thinking about how complicated he _thought_ things were back then.

Whenever he returns, Cas apologizes. That never fails. Most times, Castiel cries and tells Dean how much he hates himself for getting so frustrated, how much he hates everything about this situation. If Dean were more of an asshole than he is, he might be inclined to say, “I told you so,” because Cas definitely thought it was a hell of a lot easier than _this_ when Dean was in his shoes. 

And Dean didn’t even throw shit. 

But the thing is, Dean doesn’t even care. Yeah, it’s hard. Yeah, Cas drives him up the damn wall some (most) days. But he drove Dean up the wall at home, too, _before_ all this. Marriage is already hard, fucking _living_ with some asshole who is _totally_ different from you is hard, but Dean _loves_ him more than anything, knows that Cas feels the same in return. They’ve already done the world-ending bullshit, already faced down their own mortality and their limited time together.

So this—hard as it is—this is fucking easy. It’s just a moment in time for them, something that _someday,_ they’ll look back on and hold each other a little tighter, glad that they made it through intact. Dean never, not for _one_ second, forgets that he nearly lost Cas. The fear and overwhelming sadness he felt as Cas was wheeled away from him, hurt and bleeding, stays with him permanently like a vice around his heart.

In fact, Cas’ broken, unconscious face flashes across his eyelids nearly every time he closes them—Dean _can’t_ forget. 

So this? This is _nothing._

Every time Cas apologizes, Dean tells him so. He tells him he has a right to his anger, his frustration, but that he’s got nothing to apologize for. And then he kisses him like they’re alone in their apartment and making up after a dumb fight. Maybe slightly more gently, since the right side of Cas’ face is still tender as hell, but the feeling remains the same. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean always says. “You can’t chase me away.” 

***

The days turn into weeks. Cas gets moved to a rehabilitation center that has a median age of senior citizen discount. Unsurprisingly, Cas hates it and resents having to be there very much. Dean’s out of his depth at this point, since he never went through this particular hell himself. All he can do is ride the wave and try to find ways to support Cas, to make this temporary nightmare easier for them both. 

The problem and the reason Cas can’t go straight home has nothing to do with Dean’s willingness to help or their ability to afford care. It’s that Cas is still relearning basic functions, like walking and transferring, and it’s not a quick process. He needs equipment that technically, Cas _could_ afford to buy and install, but doing so would mean giving up their playroom. 

Even if it would only be temporary, Cas nixes that idea on the spot, says he’ll cope with the rehab center any day over _that_. Honestly, Dean’s sort of grateful. They’ve had enough of their lives turned upside down that losing the playroom—even if it isn’t meant to be forever—feels like a step too far. Feels like an intrusion into something that _this—_ this assault on Cas, this whole nightmare—shouldn’t be able to touch.

Anyway, the rehab center is closer to their apartment than the hospital, and between those two places is the Roadhouse. So at the very least, Dean’s trips for burgers and shakes (and shots) become slightly more convenient. That’s something, at least.

Dean has to go back to work. He waits until Cas is out of the hospital, but with the looming knowledge that he’ll likely have to take off again once Cas comes home, it only seems practical. Plus, Cas’ days are busy right now, so it’s not like he’s sitting in a wheelchair staring at the wall by himself. If he’s not being actively treated by a therapist, then he’s working his programs with the aides or sleeping off the exhaustion that comes with doing exactly that. 

The rehab doesn’t let Dean sleep there, either—not like the hospital. As such, if he’s on days, that means he only sees Cas for a few hours after work in the evenings. If he’s on nights, Dean will spend his days off fighting sleep so that he can sit in on Cas’ therapy sessions and actually _be_ the support system Cas deserves. 

Needless to say, Dean’s so chronically tired he could fall asleep standing up most days. Weirdly, though, between Cas’ schedule and his, he almost feels like they saw more of each other when Cas was working full-time. That sucks the most of anything.

The nights are the worst for Dean. Even when they were on opposite shifts, four days tended to be the max Dean would ever have to go before he could sleep in Cas’ arms again. Now, it’s been weeks. He spends the darkest hours of the night doing a lot of tossing and turning, plus a good amount of glaring at the ceiling, just to mix it up. Considering how tired he is all of the time, that says a _lot_ about how used to having Cas next to him Dean has become. 

Dean misses him more than he ever thought he was capable of missing anything at all.

Still, he presses on. It’s not like there’s any choice. 

That hellacious routine drags on for _three months._ Three very long months after Cas has left the hospital. By the time they’re finally working on discharge planning, outfitting Dean and Cas’ apartment with all the equipment and outpatient services they’ll need, Dean feels like a walking zombie. It’s all worth it though—because Cas is improving.

He’s still a bear, still miserable about not being able to do everything he thinks he should be at this point. On the other hand, at least now, Cas can walk and talk and write his name and (more or less) take a shower standing up without Dean or an aide holding onto a gait belt so that he doesn’t fall and smash his head and start this whole damn thing over again. 

Cas’ stubbornness is as relentless as Dean’s support. It’s both his mortal enemy and greatest strength. He’s fallen several times at the rehab, determined to take himself to the bathroom on his own or retrieve something he’s dropped—dumb things, if you ask Dean. Little acts of defiance are really what they are. Cas just wants to prove that he _can._ Unfortunately, he’s not great at simply accepting that for right now, sometimes he can’t. Thankfully, none of those incidents resulted in serious injury—just some cuts and bruises, mostly to Cas’ ego. 

In the last care meeting Dean has with Cas and Cas’ support staff in the days before discharge, they review all of the safety mechanisms and functional adjustments Cas knows he has to make at home. At this point, Dean is well aware that Cas will do or say just about anything to get the hell out of there, so he takes Cas’ solemn promise to ask for help when he needs it with a _touch_ of skepticism. 

It’s fine, though. Dean’s actually with Cas on this one—anything is worth having his husband home again. And Cas really has come leaps and bounds since the incident—he’s _close_ to his normal, he really is. Unsteady on his feet if he does too much, but hey, who the hell isn’t? Dean’s never been more sure that Cas will get there. Not that _Dean_ even cares if Cas can climb mountains or ski or even ride on an ambulance—Cas is alive and he’s himself. That’s all that matters to Dean.

But _Cas_ cares. Cas loves his job, dreams desperately of getting back to it. The guy basically chose being a paramedic over his dead mother’s dying wishes, so Dean’s pretty sure he gets how important it is to him. The thing is, Cas’ improvement has been steady, predictable. He _will_ get back there one day. Dean isn’t worried and neither is Cas’ care team.

Cas, on the other hand—he’s a damn nightmare about it. Pushing himself harder than he should, becoming frustrated and angry when small victories don’t feel big enough inside his own mind. It’s exhausting for Dean to keep reassuring him, but Dean keeps his opinions to himself and tries hard to shut up and do exactly that. 

After all, Dean knows what it’s like to feel helpless, a useless burden on those you love, and Cas has had it way worse. Even after his release, Cas still has to take it easy. He can’t do what Dean did; working out like a maniac, pushing his body to its limits without fear. He _has_ to relax, has to keep his blood pressure down, has to be the tortoise in the race, no matter how much he wants to be the hare. For someone like Cas, who is used to simply setting his mind to a goal and chasing it down without fear, it’s gotta be awful. 

The day Cas comes home, it snows. Fluffy, sticky flakes blanketing the ground, the kind that are perfect for snowball-making. They’re still floating down from the grey sky as Dean carefully brings Baby to a stop at the edge of the visitor’s parking lot next to their building. Baby belongs inside on a day like this, but Dean will just come back and move her later. It’s far fewer steps to the lobby elevator than the one in the garage, and Cas has already had a long day. 

True to form, Cas is half out of the car by the time Dean makes his way around, already bucking the rules and breaking his promises to accept help, even if he doesn’t strictly need it. Dean doesn’t say anything about it, though. Cas is a big boy, he can weigh his own risks. Plus, he looks so damn happy. 

For the first time in months, Cas’ smile looks truly genuine as he tips his face to the sky, blue eyes bright. The clouds reflect in his irises as Dean steps into his space, drawn to him instinctively. Cas’ lids flutter closed, soft white flakes landing and melting on his skin as Dean looks on. The sight is so beautiful and Cas looks so _peaceful_ that Dean can’t help but lean in and press his lips to Cas’ jaw. 

In response, Castiel hums happily. When Dean draws back, his husband’s eyes are open and focused intensely on him, the sky forgotten. Cas’ gaze is so fierce and familiar that it takes Dean being pinned by it to realize that it’s been _missing._

Just like that, Dean’s carnal need for Cas comes flaring back to life, taking him by surprise. While he hasn’t been actively suppressing those thoughts and urges, he hasn’t been encouraging them, either. With everything that’s gone on, sex has been pretty much the last thing on his mind. 

It’s weird, now that Dean’s thinking about it, that he _hasn’t_ been more horny and frustrated. Before this whole thing, he and Cas never went a day without at _least_ teasing each other. Hell, Dean was running down the ER hallways with lube in his ass, ready to be bent over the nearest surface for a reason. 

Well, whatever—Dean chalks their mutual dismissal of the subject up to stress and Cas’ protracted recovery. There’s also the matter of Dean slipping into the caregiver role and Cas being barely able to hold a fork (never mind a dick) for like six whole weeks. 

With the looks Cas is giving him now, Dean’s pretty sure they’ll be back to acting like twenty-year-old newlyweds in no time. Maybe it was just a matter of opportunity. Fucking in the bathroom of the rehab center was never really an option, after all. Doesn’t matter—they’ve got plenty of privacy now.

Cas barely lets the doors close behind them in the elevator before he’s all over Dean. And by all over, Dean definitely means _all over._ Tongue down his throat, hands thrust into his still-buttoned pants, bodies grinding mercilessly. It’s enough to leave Dean panting, shaking, and halfway to Happy-Town by the time the elevator dings for their floor. Before Dean can so much as grab his wits, Cas is yanking him out and down the hall by the front of his shirt. 

“Take it easy,” Dean mutters, hardly meaning the words but feeling obligated to say them anyway, because safety and recovery and—honestly, his brain is too addled right now to remember what else. With his shirt half-undone and Cas’ hard cock pressing against his hip, it’s not like Dean could slow things down, even if he wanted to. He’s human, he’s _so_ in love with Cas, and he hasn’t been laid in almost four months. 

Cas looks equally undone—lips parted, hair messy from Dean’s hands, and his clothes all askew. But there’s also a glimmer of _something—_ some flash of disappointment or resignation that crosses Cas’ handsome face and is gone before Dean can even fully register it. He figures it doesn’t matter because a second later, Cas is back on him again and all rational thought leaves the building completely. 

Dean has no idea that in hindsight, he’ll look back and realize—that’s the moment it all went wrong. 

***

It takes Dean almost two entire months to figure it out. To be fair, Cas is damn good at hiding his emotions, when that’s what he wants to do. Sure, Dean gets glimpses here and there, but Cas’ moods change faster than the wind these days, so Dean is never one hundred percent sure whether what he’s looking at is a serious concern or just a bad day. 

The trouble is, the two of them never _quite_ make it back to “normal.” They get into a more normal routine, sure. Cas goes to outpatient therapy and Dean goes to work. They both go to talk therapy, because it seems obvious at this point that any reasonable person would need it. They cook and clean the apartment together, and Cas participates more and more with each passing day. They fight and they fuck and they go back to ending every night in each other’s arms, but _once again,_ something is missing.

It’s not like they haven’t been down this road before—Cas was reluctant to return to the playroom after Dean was hurt, too. Back then, Dean thinks that had a lot more to do with Cas watching Dean suffer and not wanting to _cause_ suffering himself, but he’s also fairly certain that’s not the case here. In fact, the more hints Dean drops and the more unaccepted offers he leaves open, the clearer it becomes. 

Cas has lost his mojo. 

If Dean had to take a wild guess, he’d say it’s a mix of Cas not believing he’s worthy, and a straight-up self-confidence issue after all they’ve been through.

In retrospect, Dean thinks he probably should have seen this coming. It’s definitely in line with Cas’ personality and who he is, Dean just thought—well, he thought they were past distrusting each other as a couple. Past Cas thinking that Dean _caring_ for him undercut his authority and power as a Dom. 

Even that, though—that’s not exactly what this is, is it? Dean’s been there, he knows. 

Relying on your partner for _everything_ the way Cas has had to do is _hard._ It’s demoralizing, humiliating, all those good things. Dean gets that, it’s just…he thought Cas would get _over_ it. After all, he was the one telling Dean to do the same damn thing when the roles were reversed. Pick yourself up by your bootstraps, Dean. Accept help, Dean. Don’t be so whiny, I _love_ wiping your ass, Dean. And now here Cas is, throwing himself the same pity party in his own damn head. Doesn’t even have the decency to admit he’s _doing_ it, either.

Whatever—Dean knows Cas well enough to see through him, and to give him what he needs. Even if Cas isn’t willing to ask for it like an adult. You know, the way he’d expect and demand for Dean to do. If Dean didn’t want to be dominated so damn badly, he’d throw a fuckin’ tantrum over it himself. But as it is… _choices._

So instead of picking a fight, Dean hatches a plan. He puts in to use up the last of his work vacation days in the middle of _March_ (damn, this year is already painfully long) and secures a reservation at their honeymoon cabin. With a little help from a friend (and yes, after this, Dean is _definitely_ going to have to count Meg in as his friend), he makes it happen. 

When the big day rolls around, Cas has no fuckin’ clue what’s up, and that’s the way Dean wants it. In fact, when Dean sits him blindfolded in Baby’s passenger seat, Cas doesn’t even realize there are suitcases in the back, alongside a giant cooler of food and drinks. 

Part of Dean still sort of worries that this is a terrible idea. That Cas is going to be incredibly pissed off and not receptive to what Dean has planned, but hell. That’s a chance he has to take at this point. He _misses_ his Dom, knows that in the place that lies beyond Cas’ fear and self-pity, Cas misses him too. Vanilla sex is nice and all, emotional connection is awesome. Life purpose, meaningful work, and recovery in general are important. 

But _Cas_ is a Dom and Dean is a sub, and they _need_ that aspect of their lives as much as anything else, down to the bone.

The first few minutes out on the road are peaceful. Or at least, they’re quiet. Dean told Castiel they were going on a “surprise trip,” and nothing more than that. Regardless of his surety about what Cas needs, Dean’s still flexing his hands on the wheel and trying hard not to act as nervous as he feels. 

As they take the onramp out of the city and onto to the highway leading north, Dean glances around, silently wishing goodbye (and good riddance) to all the reminders of all of their bullshit, at least for a little while. Absently, Dean clicks on the radio and begins humming along to the classic rock station Baby is default-tuned to. It’s nice. With Cas beside him, he feels…almost normal. 

_Almost._

Above them, the midday sky is grey and full, the air outside Dean’s window heavy and with that particular winter smell that means a storm is on the way. Snow is definitely on the horizon, Dean just hopes he can beat the worst of it to where they’re going. Baby’s no snow bunny, that’s for sure.

The silence is broken by Castiel, who has very quickly tired of _not_ being in control of any given situation that concerns him. Dean wishes he’d translate that stubbornness to their sex life, but if all goes as planned... “Where _are_ we going, Dean? Tell me right now, or I swear, I’m taking this ridiculous blindfold off.”

“It’s romantic,” Dean protests. “C’mon, sunshine, play along.” 

Castiel grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, but he does cross his arms and sit back. To Dean’s amusement, he turns his head towards the window like he’s staring out, despite the fact that he can’t see a thing. Petulant son of a bitch. 

“Love you,” Dean offers, a somewhat manipulative attempt at compromise that he knows Cas can’t resist. Sure enough, a little smile tugs at the corner of Cas’ lips. A minute later, his hand is feeling its way across the seat, tangling with the one Dean has lying between them. “You can see?” 

“Nope,” Castiel replies, entirely satisfied with his ability to predict Dean’s behavior. He squeezes Dean’s fingers for emphasis, and Dean exhales, full of hope that this will actually work. 

***

The drive is around two hours long and Cas begins to complain when they’re still thirty minutes away that he needs to pee and can’t hold it any longer. Considering how close they are, Dean knows that if he takes the blindfold off now, Cas will definitely guess their destination. Maybe that wouldn’t be the end of the world—it’s definitely not the end of the surprises—but Dean has an image in his mind of how he wants this to go. 

He chews his lip for a bit while Castiel starts threatening to pee on Baby’s seats before taking the next exit off of the highway. They’re well into the mountains now, and civilization is sparse. More trees than buildings or cars. Even still, there’s a gas station and a general store not two hundred feet from the highway, but Dean drives right past it. 

Instead, he scans the trees for any break in the line, getting lucky fairly quickly. There’s a dirt path that looks relatively clear and anyway—Dean doesn’t intend to drive very far down it. He pulls Baby off of the road until she’s just hidden from sight before throwing her into park and taking a deep breath.

_Here goes nothing._

“Sir,” he says, very clearly and intentionally. “May I help you?” 

There’s a pause accompanied by a weighty silence that descends in the cabin of the car while Dean holds his breath and waits for Castiel to respond. If Cas isn’t willing to play along now, _fuck—_ this whole trip could turn out to be a bust. It’s a gamble, for sure, but one Dean is willing to try. The _old_ Cas—he wouldn’t fuckin’ hesitate, and Dean is _positive_ his Dom is in there, somewhere.

From less than three feet away, Dean can practically hear the gears turning in Cas’ head as he slots the pieces of this not-so-complicated puzzle together. He waits for the refusal, the chastisement, the warning sigh and accompanied, _“Dean…”_

It doesn’t come. 

“Alright,” Castiel says carefully, when he finally says anything at all. He doesn’t sound hesitant, just measured, and Dean’s hope soars. 

He takes a second to gather himself, trying to swallow down the excitement he feels at not being turned down, at even the _possibility_ of having Cas back the way he wants him. As Dean steps out of the car and rounds it, his heart thuds in his chest like a teenage boy picking up his prom date. Suddenly, Dean’s damn glad Cas is blindfolded and can’t mock him for the smile that he’s wearing and the way it stretches from ear-to-ear. 

Or hell, maybe he wishes Cas _could_ see it. Maybe that would be the friggin’ incentive Cas needs to break and turn Dean over his knee like Dean’s been dying for him to do for so long. 

For the first time since Dean realized Cas wasn’t jumping headfirst back into dominating him, Dean wonders if _he_ has been clear enough. If Cas _knows_ how badly Dean needs him. He thought so, but—just maybe, the hints he _thought_ were as loud as sirens were more like confusing whispers. 

Maybe on top of Castiel not feeling worthy, he hasn’t realized how badly Dean still wants him, too. 

As Dean opens Cas’ door and helps him step out, Cas tenses underneath his hands. _Alright, so not_ just _a misunderstanding, then._ He really is nervous. But he’s willing to try, and Dean can work with that.

“Thank you, Sir,” Dean says, when Castiel takes his arm and allows Dean to lead. It’s only maybe three steps to the edge of the path, far enough that even if someone drives by, they wouldn’t be able to see him with his dick out. 

It’s _freezing_ out here, at least ten degrees colder than downtown in the city, and Castiel shivers a little. He had his coat off in the car and didn’t put it back on when they got out. Dean’s underdressed too—while his own coat is on his back, it’s leather and not exactly weather-appropriate, but Dean didn’t think they’d be doing an impromptu sort-of-scene in the woods when he got dressed this morning. At least it isn’t snowing yet. 

It is beautiful, though, and quiet. Missing the hustle and bustle of traffic and people rushing around that plagues the city even in the darkest hours of the night. There’s nothing like that here. Just giant trees towering overhead, branches rustling in the chilly breeze, and the sound of birds and squirrels hopping around in the brush beyond the path. 

Castiel shivers again and Dean forces himself to suppress the nursemaid instincts—the impulse to cover his husband up or bundle him back into the car, piss break be damned. If Dean wants to do this, to _really_ do this, he has to let Cas be the boss of himself. Be the boss of both of them, really, not just when it comes to sex or when Dean deems it convenient. 

It occurs to Dean that maybe Cas isn’t the only one who’s slipped pretty far out of their usual dynamic—it’s not easy for him to step back and let Cas take the reins again. 

Maybe they both need this trip more than Dean thought. 

He clears his throat and ignores the cold. “May I, Sir?” he asks, touching two of his fingers to Cas’ belt buckle.

The smirk is back, ticking up the corner of Cas’ mouth below the blindfold when he says, “You may, my sweet boy. My scheming, duplicitously sweet boy, who has brought me out into the—I’m guessing— _wilderness_ using possible subterfuge and outright dishonesty.” 

“Geez, Cas,” Dean hedges, fingers faltering as he tries to undo Cas’ belt. “It ain’t as bad as all that.” 

“Hmm,” Castiel replies. “Cas?” His questioning tone is sharp and brings Dean up short, snapping his head up the way he routinely does when Cas is expecting eye contact. Of course, Cas is still blindfolded and yet somehow, Dean feels as if he’s looking straight through him. When he licks his lips, he could _swear_ Cas grin widens, just a hint. 

“Sir,” Dean replies quickly, his brain belatedly catching up as it attempts to process everything that’s happening in front of him. “I definitely, _definitely_ mean Sir.” 

“I need to urinate very badly,” Castiel reminds him, as straight-faced as he can possibly be while still sounding entirely amused. 

With renewed confidence, Dean gets Cas’ buckle undone before moving to stand behind him. While he reaches into Cas’ boxers to tug him out, Dean tucks his icy nose into the side of Cas’ neck. He’s definitely pushing Castiel, trying to see how much control Cas wants to take back from him, how ready he is to really take this thing to the next level. 

_God,_ Dean hopes he’s reading this right. He hasn’t been this excited about anything in _months,_ and honestly, that has very little to do with the increased blood flow currently rushing to his dick. 

Cas lets Dean nose behind his ear while he pisses, and when he’s done, he says so, without any indication that he’s feeling any type of way. The manner in which his dick has filled out a little in Dean’s hand says otherwise, though, so instead of complying, Dean gives it a stroke or two. 

In an instant, Dean finds himself laid out on the ground, hand that was just holding Cas’ cock now twisted almost painfully tight against the small of his back. His cheek is flush against the gravel-studded dirt, and the way it digs into his skin _bites_ and teases and feels _so_ damn good. Cas’ weight on his back, the heavy palm resting between his shoulder blades— _fuck, yes._

 _Welcome back, Cas,_ Dean thinks. 

“What did I say, Dean?” Castiel growls from behind him. “Were my instructions unclear?” 

Dean can’t help but grin happily, despite the bit of rock lodged in the side of his mouth. “No, Sir,” he replies enthusiastically. Castiel shifts against him so that he’s straddling Dean’s thigh, pelvis pressing against Dean’s ass. He’s hard now, and Dean’s never been so goddamn happy in his life. 

As Dean struggles to control his breathing and the urge to shiver from anticipation (and maybe a _little_ bit from the incredibly cold ground), Castiel’s body blankets him almost completely. His lips run the shell of Dean’s ear and he hums softly. The vibrations against Dean’s sensitive skin have his eyes fluttering closed, hopeful.

“You think you can bait me?” Castiel murmurs. “After all this time? You think you’re in charge here?” 

“God, no, Sir,” Dean replies honestly, working hard not to press back into Cas’ groin. It’s not a difficult instinct to fight, considering _this_ is all Dean _really_ wants, and he’d do goddamn anything to keep it. “You’re in charge, Sir. Always.”

There’s a short pause, and then Cas’ weight vanishes from his back like it was never there. “Good,” Castiel replies, and the sound of his hands clapping together like he’s dusting himself off reaches Dean’s ears. “You may stand up.” 

Somewhat shakily, Dean gets to his feet. His insides feel like they’re vibrating, and all he really wants to do is drop to his knees and beg Cas to fuck him up, right here in this half-frozen forest. Instead, he turns and faces Castiel, only a little surprised to see that the guy still has his damn blindfold on. 

Despite that, Dean can see the cocked eyebrow Cas is sporting, read the way his arms are crossed over his chest. Like the good boy he is, he waits quietly until Castiel decides to speak again. When he does, Dean is pretty sure he looks pleased. 

“You may finish escorting me to our destination now,” Castiel says, offering his arm and linking it through Dean’s when he steps into his side. “Shall we?” 

“Absolutely, Sir,” Dean replies, happily accepting the offer and guiding Castiel back towards the car in high spirits. Hey, he might not have gotten fucked in the middle of the woods, but overall, Dean feels as if this dipping of his toe into the waters of submission went _far_ better than even he could have hoped for.

The last leg of their journey flies, and there’s a palpably different energy in the cabin of the vehicle than before by the time Dean’s exiting the highway again. Following his memory, Dean pulls off of the main road running through the small town that sits at the base of the mountain they’re staying on. The directions are easy, but navigating up the winding side street becomes difficult as the first fluffy flakes that started to drop fifteen minutes prior turn heavy. 

As Dean squints against the bright white curtain marring the view ahead, Castiel begins to get restless at his side. It’s almost as if he can sense Dean’s distress and really—that’s very likely the case. 

“Is everything alright?” he asks quietly. “Dean, if you need my assistance, please don’t feel like whatever plans you have will be ruined. Is it snowing?” 

“Yeah,” Dean replies gruffly, taking Baby down to a crawl so that she doesn’t slip and slide and send them careening off the side of the mountain. Baby’s his pride and joy, but she’s not an off-road vehicle by any means. Even now, her tires fail to grip the road through the inch or so of unplowed, slushy snow. Dean silently praises his own foresight in packing food for them in a cooler, just in case. There’s no way they’re getting down into town tonight— _maybe_ tomorrow if the snow stops and the plows do a decent job with clean-up. 

“Are you ignoring me?”

“No,” Dean snips, not failing to note the way Cas’ jaw clenches in his peripheral vision. “No, Sir,” he amends, a lot more softly. Cas’ jaw relaxes, and Dean can almost imagine the pleased twinkle in his eye. “We’re almost—”

Right on time, the stretching driveway that leads off of the road, down through the woods, and dead-ends at their cabin appears to Dean’s right. He sighs with relief and takes Baby smoothly down the path. The snow here is a bit lighter, the tree cover protecting the ground just a bit. It’s enough for Baby to make it through. With the weight of the flakes and the dense rate that they’re falling, though, that definitely won’t last. It’s good they came when they did. 

“We’re here,” Dean announces, pulling Baby underneath the carport to the left of the cabin and noting with appreciation all the firewood stacked high against the wall. “No!” he yelps, as Castiel raises his hand to remove the blindfold. “Please,” he adds hurriedly. “Just—give me five minutes, alright? Sit tight and I’ll walk you in. _Sir._ ” 

“Sit tight,” Castiel echoes, clearly amused. Even still, he tucks his hands obediently into his lap and settles back in his seat. “I trust you,” he says, and Dean exhales. 

The next five minutes are a race, since he has _no doubt_ that Castiel is counting the seconds. Knowing the layout of the cabin is a plus, and Dean makes good use of his advantage. Intent on not wasting time, he shoulders every bag they have _plus_ picks up the cooler with a grunt and a huff. Dean’s fairly sure he hears a chuckle from the front seat, but it’s not like he has the time to stop and check.

The wind and snow sting his face as Dean makes the short trek from the carport to the front porch. It’s cold, but it’s beautiful here. The forest surrounds the cabin completely on this side, though looking out from the back, it gives way to an incredible view of the valley and mountains beyond. Above him, the tree branches sway and the snow falls and Dean feels a thrum of excitement in his veins.

He sets the cooler down onto the wooden floor of the porch so that he can punch his code into the lockbox hanging on the door. It opens easily, dropping a key ring into his hand. Knowing that his time is dwindling, Dean quickly unlocks the door and hauls all of their gear inside. 

Bags to the master suite off to the left, cooler in the kitchen, small travel bag out in the living room for… _reasons._ Thermometer adjusted from the eco-heating the owner keeps it on between renters to a more comfortable seventy-two, and some lights. 

As he moves through the house, Dean checks on the modifications and additions he sent Meg ahead of them yesterday to carry out. To his delight, everything seems to be in place. It’s lucky the cabin has owners Dean and Cas have become friendly with, people who didn’t mind making a few permanent changes on a whim.

Well, they at least didn’t mind taking Cas’ money in exchange for those changes, anyway. Same diff, as far as Dean is concerned. It’s nothing that’ll be noticeable to anyone who isn’t looking for it, but still. Testing the strength of the two ropes hanging from brand new silver loops in the raftered ceiling of the living room, Dean grins and makes a mental note to send Meg her favorite pizza the next time she’s at work. He owes her big.

With the seconds ticking down, Dean strips quickly and moves his collar from his wrist to his neck. He ditches his clothes in the bedroom, grabbing his robe out of one of the duffles before stuffing his feet back into his boots. Laces still untied, he flies out the front door and down the porch, _barely_ making it to the passenger side of the car before Cas is kicking the door open and stepping out.

“Time’s up,” Cas announces, presumably before he even knows for sure that Dean is there.

Gasping, Dean slaps one hand onto Baby’s hood to brace himself, clapping Cas on the shoulder with the other. “I’m here,” he wheezes. “‘M right here, just hold your damn horses. Aw fuck,” he mutters, not even having to look at Cas’ face to see the eyebrow go up. “Just—trust me, alright? You can take all of your frustrations out on my ass in a hot second. Sir.” 

“Intriguing,” Castiel replies, slamming the door. He nearly walks into one of the posts supporting the carport, Dean swooping in to guide him away right at the last second. As they stand in the clearing, the snow settles in Castiel’s hair, making him look unusually delicate, pretty, almost ethereal. If Dean wasn’t freezing his nuts off, he could look at that sight all day. 

As it is, he’s in a hell of a rush to get back inside. 

When they take the steps up onto the porch together, Dean’s unlaced boots clomp loudly against the wood and he nearly trips and walks right out of one. Despite that, Dean doesn’t miss the way Castiel inhales sharply, suggesting he’s caught on to where they are. Not shocking, Cas isn’t an idiot and Dean definitely knew it was possible that he would. But what Cas _doesn’t_ know is the way all of Dean’s pieces are about to slot together for the big reveal. 

The cabin isn’t the surprise— _Dean_ is.

Of course, he wasn’t counting on Cas being _quite_ so easy to get on board. The fact that he’s already demanding Dean call him “Sir” and insisting Dean stop bossing him around definitely takes the pressure off. 

“Stand here one second, please, Sir,” Dean says. He squeezes Castiel’s hand affectionately before letting it go just as soon as they’re inside. Closing the door behind them, Dean quickly shirks his robe, tossing it over the back of the couch as he steps out of his boots. Once he’s down to Cas’ favorite panties and his collar, Dean puts a hand on Cas’ back and touches his elbow, leading him gently into the middle of the space.

The cabin is really just one large room and the master suite—an open-concept, rustic situation that Dean kind of wishes he could live in year-round. To their left is the kitchen and eating area, fully-equipped and topped off with an antler chandelier that Dean’s not done begging Cas to let him install above their own dining room set. 

To the right is the living room, wide and airy with glass on two sides and sixteen-foot ceilings that make Dean feel short. The fireplace runs all the way up to the top, bold and imposing, the divider in an otherwise uninterrupted view of the forest and a bit of the view beyond. Filling the space are two worn and deliciously comfortable couches with cushy pillows and flannel blankets folded in a stack. Rounding out the seating is an awesome leather recliner, all of the pieces facing said fireplace and the TV mounted above it, plus the expected side tables and low-watt lamps.

A huge floor-to-ceiling bookcase next to the entrance offers movies, books, and board games, none of which Dean expects will get much use during this particular trip. At least, not if all goes according to plan ( _so far, so good)_.

At the opposite end of the house and the front door are two large sliders that lead out onto the balcony. This is Dean’s _favorite_ part of the place, hands down. The view is breathtaking and the sun sets behind the mountains they’re facing, turning the whole view molten and glowing almost every evening. 

Dean and Cas have enjoyed that scene on many a peaceful night, kicked back and relaxing with a drink in the hot tub that sits out there, too. Or, alternatively, with Castiel fucking Dean roughly against the porch railing, shoving his tie into Dean’s mouth to stop him from screaming into the valley and making their distant neighbors wonder if Jason Voorhees is out there.

As far as looks, the traditional cabin exterior of the house isn’t for show. This place is the real deal—hand-cut logs from casement to ceiling, the inside showcasing it too. Beyond the walls, the wooden accents, the custom kitchen table and chairs, even the cabinets all match the blond, knotty logs of the house’s bones. In contrast, the towering fireplace is grey stone, and the wide island in the kitchen has the same aesthetic on three sides. 

Dean loves it. 

This place is like a second home to him, and he hopes Cas feels the same way. Hopes this will be a safe and welcoming ground zero for them to find their way back to each other, the way Dean knows they can be, the way they deserve. Good memories, new-start symbolism, and all that crap Dean doesn’t really buy into and yet is counting on pretty heavily to come through for him.

He takes a deep breath before letting go of Castiel, stepping away and in between the dual ropes hanging from the ceiling. Letting his fingers caress the soft rope as he drops, Dean falls to his knees and folds his hands demurely into his lap. It kills him to miss Castiel’s reaction, but this is part of it, and Dean doesn’t have a choice. He lowers his head, stares at the carpeted floor in front of Castiel’s feet. 

Right now, he’s the picture-perfect image of submission. There will be no mistaking this for anything other than what it is: an offering, from Dean to Castiel. 

“Come back to me, Cas,” Dean says softly. “ _Sir._ You can look, if you’re ready.” 

Despite keeping his eyes down, Dean still thinks he can _feel_ the moment Castiel sheds the blindfold, and not just because the bit of his body Dean can see shifts a little. There’s a quiet gasp, barely audible, but more importantly, the current in the air changes. Suddenly—and Dean’s _pretty_ sure it’s not just his own excitement—the room feels electrified. 

As Castiel steps forward slowly, Dean licks his lips, tries to control his breathing. There are fingers under his chin then, lifting his face until he’s blinking up into an ocean of familiar blue. Cas is biting his own lip, both thoughtful and excited as he turns Dean’s face this way and that.

“I’m sorry,” Cas declares, finally, and he sounds like he means it. His eyes are soft and regretful, despite the amusement in their creases. Today, his voice is without the self-pitying edge that’s been lacing so much of what he says lately. To Dean’s eye, he looks effortlessly confident, like the Cas he fell in love with in _every_ way, and they’ve barely gotten started. 

Dean’s heart aches in his chest. If he were the kind of guy who waxed poetic about his feelings, the shit that would spill from his mouth right now… 

Thank fuck he’s not. 

Cas’ thumb is dragging across his lips, dipping past them to caress Dean’s tongue and hook around his teeth. Dean doesn’t flinch, just holds eye contact and lets Cas do whatever he wants. _Please do whatever you want to me,_ he thinks. 

“I’m sorry for not being able to give you what you need lately,” Castiel continues, his thumb slipping free and leaving a wet streak down Dean’s chin. “I’m sorry for—” he pauses, searching Dean’s face with his eyes, dragging his own lip through his teeth again before shrugging. It looks to Dean like he’s shaking something off, letting some invisible stress roll off of his shoulders and back. Dean hopes it’s the pain and confusion of the past few months, the way his need to rely on Dean has gotten him so down and depressed, so far away from who he really is and wants to be. 

_“C’mon, Cas, come back to me,”_ Dean thinks, pleading with his eyes when he does. 

“Color, Dean,” Castiel says gently, and Dean’s whole body floods with both endorphins and relief. 

“Green, Sir,” he replies eagerly.

Recent history has Dean expecting a kiss next, has him closing his eyes and leaning forward, already feeling Cas’ lips ghosting against his. That’s all they’ve been doing, after all. Romantic shit. Lovey, affectionate sex where Cas rides him until he’s shaking or fucks him nice and slow while they make out, all sloppy and life-affirming. 

Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with mushy stuff—shit has its place and all. It’s just that sometimes Dean wants to be slapped across his face and spanked until he’s black and blue. With everything that’s happened, though, he’s gotten used to putting his needs on the backburner. Gotten used to accepting whatever Cas feels up to giving him at the moment, which hasn’t been anything close to _that._

So to say Dean isn’t expecting the sting of Cas’ palm against his cheek and the whipping of his head to the side in its wake—it’s an understatement. 

In fact, it’s _so_ surprising and _so_ gratifying that even Dean is shocked at his own physical response. Between his legs, his dick goes from “mildly interested” to painfully hard like lightning, and Dean himself is left gasping and moaning like a chick in one of his favorite porn clips. 

“Can’t fake that kind of enthusiasm,” Castiel muses, somewhere above him. He chuckles a little as Dean blinks the tears from his eyes, trying to focus on his Dom. His head is swimming, his body is thrumming, and as much as Dean _wanted_ things to go this way, he wasn’t prepared. Maybe, just _maybe_ he was bracing for a worst-case scenario where Cas turned him down. 

Or maybe he just forgot how fucking _good_ it is to be at Cas’ mercy like this. Either way, Dean is already overwhelmed and it’s the absolute _best_ feeling, so he leans into it fully. Subspace has been nothing but a distant memory for Dean for too long, and Cas aside, he definitely forgot what a high it is. Now that he’s falling swiftly back into it, he’s pretty damn powerless to slow down. 

“Up,” Castiel demands, and an already spinning Dean hurries to comply. “Hands above your head.” Dean stands, balancing on shaky legs, forcing himself to stay vertical while Castiel ties his wrists together with one of the ropes above his head. 

“Oh, fuck,” Dean whimpers, when Castiel leans down to tap his left calf, indicating he should lift it. They’ve done this exactly once, and it was _hell_ for Dean. One of the hardest scenes he’s ever pushed through. Not because it hurt or because it wasn’t something Dean was into, just the _physicality_ required—it was a lot. 

So, of course, this is what Cas wants to do. Test and press his fuckin’ limits right out of the gate. Well, Dean _did_ give him the ropes (literally and figuratively), he should have known Cas would use them to their fullest extent. Anyway, he’s not complaining. Whatever Cas wants—anything at all—Dean will happily take and thank him sincerely for it. 

But he still is who he is, can’t help that one bit.

He picks up his leg, touches his foot to the inside of his thigh the way he knows Cas wants. _Dammit,_ he’s so fuckin’ out of shape and out of practice, he’s already sore. No way is he getting out of this without a major cramp and at least one pulled muscle. 

“What, am I too much for you to handle on two feet? Gotta ease back into it by tying me up? Lost your touch, huh?” 

Without missing a beat, Castiel shifts the rope he’s using to secure Dean’s ankle just above his knee into his left hand. With his right, he delivers three swift, sharp swats to Dean’s ass. 

Like the brat he is, Dean just laughs, relishing the way his skin smarts in the shape of Cas’ fingers. 

“You’re going to regret that,” Castiel says, almost conversationally, as he finishes tying Dean’s legs together. Once he’s done, he toes at the back of Dean’s supporting knee, leaving him scrabbling with his fingers at the rope he’s hanging from and frantically tightening his abdomen so that he can keep his balance.

 _Dick,_ Dean thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut. “Sorry, Sir,” is what he says out loud, but he’s still smirking, and he knows Cas can see it. In response, Cas just shakes his head and rolls his eyes. 

“You’re _lucky_ my skills are rusty at the moment,” he tells Dean. While Dean grins and tries to look tantalizingly cocky while balancing on one leg like a sexy as fuck flamingo, Castiel notices the bag Dean left for him on the couch. 

“I think you’re doing pretty okay,” Dean remarks, tipping his chin in the bag’s direction. “That’s your stuff. You’re _welcome,_ ” he adds petulantly, and Castiel shoots him a glare.

“Keep it up, Dean,” he warns, unzipping the bag and rifling through its contents. 

“And you’ll, what? Spank me?” 

“Edge you until your cock is purple and painful and you’re screaming for release, for starters. Refuse to let you come for this entire trip. Take you down from where you’re tied up like that only long enough to ensure your safety and then string you up again. Plug your ass with a vibrator and—”

“Alright, geez, we get it, Casifer. Sir. You’re a badass devil in an angel’s body.” When Castiel looks up and quirks a questioning eyebrow at him, Dean winks back. “Wreck me, baby,” he teases, entirely full of himself, even knowing he’ll pay for it. 

“You’re incorrigible,” Castiel replies, but he can’t quite hide the smile that ticks up the corners of his mouth. “You know that I’m going to make you regret that.” 

“Please,” Dean breathes, shifting a little and adjusting his grip. “God, I hope so.” 

“So many goodies in here,” Castiel muses. “So many options. I could stuff you full at both ends, bind your cock, cut you, drip wax all over your body—oh, so many lovely choices. And yet…I feel like tonight, I want this to be just us.” He drops the bag, having selected nothing from it but a bottle of lube. Waving it at Dean, he flicks the cap open and drizzles some onto two fingers. “And this, of course. After all, my hands can do just as much damage as any… _toy._ ” 

_Oh, fuck. There he is._

That’s the Cas that Dean has been missing. That’s the Cas he knew was still in there, somewhere, dying to come back out. If ever Dean’s wanted to sappily confess his undying love for his husband, it’s never been more so than in this very moment. He’s deliriously, _stupidly_ happy right now. Ironically, Cas is probably taking the smile that’s slapped across his face as an insolent challenge, but really, Dean’s just fuckin’ thrilled. 

Cas gets in his face, then, kissing him roughly, biting at his bottom lip just a _little_ too hard. Dean doesn’t doubt that he leaves the imprint of his teeth behind when he goes. “Delicious,” Castiel murmurs, when he’s done trying to lick the back of Dean’s throat, when he’s had enough of nipping at the soft skin of his neck, the shell of his ear.

Against the crease of Dean’s thigh, Cas is hard, but he doesn’t make any move to acknowledge it or pull himself out. Instead, he just tugs Dean close by the hip, causing him to grumble and have to re-stabilize himself when he sways and nearly loses his precarious footing. 

Castiel smirks. “When will you learn not to push me?” 

Licking his dry lips, Dean looks down at him dreamily and grins. “Hopefully never, Sir,” he replies easily.

The surprise on Castiel’s face pleases Dean a _lot,_ but he barely has time to appreciate it before his panties are being tugged down to his thighs and Cas’ two wet fingers are pushing past his rim without pretense. 

“Ungh,” Dean grunts, trying and failing to not look as affected as he is. 

After all, this _is_ what Dean wants—something rough, verging on painful. Something dirty and passionate and unsanitized. Sharp edges and no kid gloves, but he knows better than to demand anything specific from Cas. That’s a surefire one-way ticket to getting the exact opposite thing, in Dean’s experience. 

So he just hangs on, relishing the slight discomfort and the demanding stretch inside his own mind. 

“Look at this,” Castiel says, reaching around and patting one of Dean’s cheeks with his free hand. “You’re just so _accessible_ to me this way.” Without further comment, he draws back and spanks Dean as he scissors the fingers inside him, and Dean can’t help but tip his head back and moan. 

Castiel chuckles and licks a stripe up his neck and back down, sucking a kiss over Dean’s collarbone while he kneads the skin he just warmed up. “More?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Dean sighs, his face tipping sideways into his own bicep, conveniently pulled almost flush next to his ear. “Please, Sir.”

“Oh, that’s so much more like it,” Castiel replies approvingly, adding another finger. “There’s my good boy.” 

He spanks Dean again and again while his other hand keeps Dean’s body pressed ridiculously close and continues opening him up. By the time Cas is four fingers deep—something he _never_ bothers with unless it’s otherwise part of the scene—Dean is whimpering and moaning into Cas’ neck, barely keeping himself upright. Somehow, Cas has found the right angle to hit his prostate, and he’s not been gentle about it. 

His thigh is between Dean’s legs now, helping to keep him standing, but Dean’s still doing a _lot_ of the work. His stomach aches, he’s exhausted, his ass is on fire, and Cas hasn’t even fucked him yet. 

With his spanking hand, Castiel soothes a palm over the side of Dean’s face, pushing him upright, presumably so that he can get a good look at the damage he’s wrought. Dean knows he must be a wreck, sweaty and undone as he feels. He does his best to meet Castiel’s gaze head-on, but his sight is a little blurry from tears and drifting into subspace. 

“Gorgeous,” Castiel tells him, and Dean feels _so_ good, _so_ proud of himself. “So perfect for me.” 

Which is why, when Castiel pulls away, Dean _moans,_ nearly fuckin’ cries _._ “Stay there,” Castiel warns. “Don’t move. Just for a moment.” 

With his dick curved hard and aching, drooling precum against his stomach, Dean sways in his bindings and tries not to make undignified noises. He’s slightly dissociated, but still with it enough to know he wants Cas in him, _now._ Cas knows it too, if the way he’s washing his hands _painfully_ slowly over at the island is any indication. 

When he returns to Dean’s side, it’s to trail light fingertips teasingly over his chest and down his ribs as Castiel circles him. Once he’s behind Dean, his hands go to Dean’s hips, his mouth to the nape of Dean’s neck, leaving wet kisses and semi-gentle bites. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “Even when you’re being a stubborn brat. I could look at your body for centuries and never tire of mapping every curve, every freckle. I’m disgustingly in love with you, so much so that it boils up and threatens to explode out of me if I go too long without seeing you, touching you.” His hand snakes around and strokes Dean luxuriously, too loose to get him off but still sparking with pleasure. 

Distantly, Dean hears Cas’ zipper going down, feels the rustling of his clothes as Cas pulls himself out. The head of Cas’ cock presses at Dean’s loose, wet rim, pressing inside easily and filling him fully, making him moan and clutch at the rope between his hands. 

He doesn’t have the leverage to push back, and that’s torture in and of itself. The slow slide of Cas seating himself has Dean gasping by the end, a broken “ _please,”_ rolling off of his tongue before he realizes that’s what he’s saying.

“Shhh,” Castiel soothes. “Shhh, darling. My good boy.” Just like that, his hand leaves Dean’s dick and finds its way to his neck, squeezing around the soft flesh just _slightly_ too hard, so that Dean chokes a little, sees stars. And then Castiel lets go, jamming his fingers into Dean’s mouth, instead. 

“Filling you from both ends sounded too good to pass up,” Castiel says, thrusting slow and long into Dean’s ass, fingers dipping against his tongue. Without having to be asked, Dean sucks, deep throats Cas’ digits enthusiastically, practically drooling around them. The groan Castiel makes in response is all the encouragement he needs and Dean turns it up a notch, licking between Cas’ fingers and really going to town. 

“ _Dean,"_ Castiel moans. “Dean, how could I have let this—let _you_ go for so long?” He’s fucking Dean fairly roughly now, and with the intrusion in his mouth, Dean can only grunt in response. “Thank you,” Castiel is saying, and Dean barely hears, he’s off his face with pleasure and happiness. “For reminding me who I am.” 

Dean isn’t expecting it when Cas pulls away, though he probably should have been. He cries out, practically sobs, his cock throbbing painfully between his legs. A blurt of cum bubbles out of the slit—he was _so_ damn close to finishing, _so_ desperate for it. 

“Hush,” Castiel tells him as Dean whines, and then suddenly, his bound ankle is free and Cas is working on his hands. Once they’re loose, Castiel doesn’t mess around, just jerks one arm and then the other behind Dean’s back, securing them with what might be a zip tie. 

Honestly, Dean has no idea and doesn’t much care—the relief he feels at being cut down is _nearly_ as satisfying as his impending orgasm promises to be, although not quite. 

Even on two feet Dean is wobbly, but Castiel is right there with him. “Come,” Cas urges, marching Dean forward. He moves him a few feet nearer to the couch, close enough that when he puts one hand on Dean’s abdomen and one on his back, bending him forward, Dean’s face winds up resting on the cushioned arm. 

A tear leaks from his eye, running down the side of his cheek and soaking into the fabric. “Fuck, yes,” Castiel groans as he pushes back inside. “So tight. You feel like Heaven, Dean.” 

As he picks up the pace, fucking Dean pretty ruthlessly now that he has something to brace against, Castiel’s hand right hand reaches across, curving around Dean’s left shoulder. It wraps over the scarred imprint of its own shape, in the opposite direction. Cas’ torso twists to let him do so, the angle changing to perfectly press against Dean’s prostate with every forward stroke. His left hand works Dean’s aching ass cheek, spanking it again occasionally. 

Now that he doesn’t have to hold himself up, Dean lets himself really float. With Cas pounding on his prostate and all the teasing and edging he’s been subjected to, Dean knows he’s not going to have a problem coming untouched so long as he can get himself into the right mindset. The praises and sweet words Cas is murmuring in his ear help, and Dean rides the wave, letting himself be brought closer and closer. This time, he doesn’t fight it, doesn’t try to hold his pleasure at bay. 

It’s Cas letting go of his shoulder and threading fingers into his hair, scratching at his scalp, that sends him over the edge. Dean’s legs are shaking, there’s sweat dripping off of him, and his whole body feels tense and hot. His muscles lock up when he comes and he drifts so far into subspace he barely feels connected to his body anymore. 

Even still, he can feel Cas’ slick skin sliding against his back, can feel the hot, wet spill somewhere deep inside of him and Cas’ shudder of release when he comes. Dean’s own orgasm feels fucking _endless._ Tantric, he might say, if words were a thing he could grasp at all. It washes over him and out of him, eyes rolling back in his head as his cum spurts out, landing on the couch and the floor in violent splatters. 

As Dean pants and trembles and fights his way back to himself, he rubs his forehead against the arm of the couch, staring down blankly at the mess on the floor. 

“...okay? Dean, are you okay?” 

Belatedly, Dean realizes Cas is shaking his shoulder, trying to get him to stand upright. His arms are free but his legs are weak and Cas has already pulled out, so instead, Dean half-rolls around to collapse down on the couch. Once he’s there, he blinks up at Castiel hazily, taking a deep breath before holding up the “OK” sign. 

Cas is peering back with concern, but he seems to relax a little, at the familiar sign. Dean closes his eyes for a moment, barely registering Cas advising him that he’s going to grab juice. Dean _wants_ to tell him about the cooler in the kitchen, but his mouth isn’t currently working with his brain, so instead, he just nods and enjoys the back of his eyelids.

It turns out to be irrelevant. Cas finds the cooler with ease and returns to the living room with Dean’s juice and a protein bar, which he proceeds to mother-hen down Dean’s throat. Dean, meanwhile, is still subspaced-out and barely remembers how to chew like a human being. 

When he finally begins to regain his senses and his limbs stop tingling, he’s not where he remembers collapsing, half off of the couch. Now, he’s arranged properly end-to-end with his legs draped over Cas’ lap. To Dean’s delight, Cas is quietly but thoroughly massaging them toe to thigh with some sort of nice-smelling oil. 

Dean shifts, tucking an arm behind his head, between his hair and a decorative pillow that may not survive this encounter. As absorbed as he is in his task, Castiel still notices, smoothing oiled hands up Dean’s thigh as he leans over to press a soft kiss to Dean’s lips. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean replies, and even he can hear the affection laced through his own voice. He cracks a smile. He’s never been good at hiding from Cas. “You good, sunshine?”

Eyebrows raising in surprise, Castiel cocks his head, one hand still rubbing lazy circles into Dean’s muscles. “I believe that’s my question,” he protests mildly. 

With a shrug, Dean lifts his hand and lets it drift down the curve of Cas’ face, over his stubbled jaw. “You’re so damn good to me, Cas,” he says. “Wanna make sure it’s just as good for you, too.” 

Castiel pauses for a moment, drops his head so that Dean can’t see his face. “I meant everything that I said while we were intimate,” he admits, finally. “I don’t say things in the moment that I don’t mean.” When he raises his face again, he looks more serious than Dean would like. “You were right. I was hiding, I was…not myself, and I was doing us and our relationship an extreme disservice. Can you forgive me?” 

Relieved, Dean smiles widely, cups Castiel’s face with his tired hands and drags him in to kiss. “Nothing to forgive, sweetheart,” he replies firmly. “Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt.” Cas’ scruff is rough under his fingertips, but Cas is warm and real and _his._ “We always come back to each other. Always bring each other back when one of us gets stupid, yeah?” 

“Yes,” Castiel replies sincerely, eyes big and round and _way_ too adorable and innocent-looking for who Cas is and what he does. “Thank you, all the same.” 

“You have and would do the same for my dumb ass,” Dean retorts, unable to stop himself from capturing Cas’ lips once again. “C’mon, kiss me back, asshole,” he demands when Cas is less than responsive. In response, he gets a hand in the middle of his chest slamming him back down on the couch, followed by a reproachful glare. 

“The disrespect,” Castiel says, disapprovingly. Those words say one thing but his tone is light and he settles back into rubbing Dean down without further complaint. Instead of returning to his legs, he takes Dean’s left hand and starts working the sore muscles in his wrist. “Any pain?” 

Dean shakes his head no. “You’re all the medicine I need, baby,” he teases, pleased when Castiel fails at suppressing his smile. “Tired, though. How’s the snow? Do I gotta make dinner or can the pizza guy make it up here?” 

Castiel straightens his back to check and Dean follows, using his elbow to prop himself up enough to see out of all the glass surrounding them. The pure, nearly-opaque curtain of dimly-lit white that stares back tells him all he needs to know. 

“I’ll cook,” Castiel offers, though he looks unhappy about it. 

“No worries,” Dean replies, settling down again and making himself comfortable. “What am I, new? Figured we’d end the day like this, so I whipped up a full meal while you were at therapy yesterday. Put it all in tupperwares. Just have to heat it up.” 

“Oh, thank God,” Castiel sighs, slumping back against the cushions. “You know I’m garbage with anything not frozen or pasta. I believe I can work the microwave just fine, though.” 

There’s silence between them for a few moments as Castiel finishes massaging Dean’s sore arms. “Cas?” Dean ventures. “Are we—we’re good, right? I know you said I was right and stuff, but…we’re _back,_ right? You want to be my Dom again?” Cas’ head snaps up, staring back at Dean like he can’t believe his question and alright, fair. “I had to ask,” Dean adds weakly. “You know we don’t assume shit.” 

“No, you’re right to do so,” Castiel replies with a sigh, working the tension from Dean’s fingers before finishing up and folding them together in his lap. His own hands cover them. “Yes,” he says firmly. “Yes, of course. You know I’ll always be your Dom.”

“Good,” Dean replies brightly, lifting his leg to tuck it under Cas’ still clothed hip, prodding at him obnoxiously. “Then get your hot ass moving. Go make us food so we can eat before we crawl into bed and do this again. Or, hell, I’ll get a fire going and we can get down and dirty right here. There’s a restraint bench on the other side of that couch, I can watch the snow fall while you mess me up.” He lifts his eyebrows in question.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Castiel snaps sharply, gaze fierce.

In response, Dean just grins widely. “There he is.” 

Castiel’s answering smile is wicked. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this addition to the Fire & Ice world! It's possible we will peek back in on them someday for a porny interlude, but this is the last of the angst/struggle for them (i'm sure they're grateful, lmao). Thank @WaywardCoug (Alohikea74) too, because without her, this timestamp would not exist!
> 
> I did write a lot of this while having some major personal struggles (those of you who follow me know what happened, and I truly appreciate all of your love and support). If this isn't completely up to my usual caliber, all I can do is apologize and say that I've been struggling and that writing is an escape, so I did try very hard. 
> 
> Also, I struggled with the chapter warnings and am not sure I was comprehensive. If you have suggestions on how they could be improved, please let me know!
> 
> Please stick around if you enjoyed this story-I have a ton more stuff on the way. A DCBB, a happy alt-ending to "The End," and up next: a post-canon getting-together casefic. <3


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